VZ 


1  Le 


• 


VALERIAN, 

A  NARRATIVE  POEM: 

INTENDED,  IN   PART,  TO  DESCRIBE 

THE  EARLY  PERSECUTIONS  OF  CHRISTIANS, 

AND    RAPIDLY    TO 

ILLUSTRATE  THE  INFLUENCE  OF  CHRISTIANITY 

ON    THE 

MANNERS  OF  NATIONS. 


BT  JOHN  BLAIR  LINN,  D.  D. 

LATE  PASTOR  OF  THE   FIRST  PRESBYTERIAN  CONGREGATION,  IN  PHILADELPHIA. 


LIFE  AND  CHARACTER  OF  THE  AUTHOR. 


PRINTED    BY    THOMAS    AND    GEORGE    PALMER, 

116,    HIGH    STREET. 

1805. 


A  SKETCH  OF  THE  LIFE  AND  CHARACTER 


OF 


JOHN  BLAIR  LINN. 


JOHN  BLAIR  LINN  was  descended  from  ancestors  who  originally  came  from  the 
British  islands.  They  appear  to  have  been  emigrants  at  an  early  period,  and  to  have 
given  their  descendants  as  just  a  claim  to  the  title  of  American,  as  the  nature  of  things 
will  allow  any  civilized  inhabitant  of  the  United  States  to  acquire. 

His  name  bears  testimony  to  the  paternal  and  maternal  stock  from  which  he 
sprung.  His  great-grandfather,  William  Linn,  was  an  emigrant  from  Ireland,  who 
settled  land  in  the  wilderness  of  Pennsylvania,  and  whose  eldest  son,  William,  was  the 
father  of  a  numerous  family,  of  whom  the  present  Dr.  William  Linn  was  the  eldest. 

The  father  of  John  Blair  Linn  received  a  careful  education,  which  his  family 
enabled  him  to  complete  at  the  college  at  Princeton.  He  was  trained  to  the  ministry, 
in  the  presbyterian  church,  and  married,  at  an  early  age,  Rebecca  Blair,  the  third 
daughter  of  the  Reverend  John  Blair.  Her  brother  and  uncle  were  likewise  clergy 
men,  and  the  family  were  eminently  distinguished  by  their  knowledge  and  piety. 

Their  eldest  son,  John  Blair  Linn,  was  born  in  Shippensburg,  in  Pennsylvania, 
March  14,  1777,  at  no  great  distance  from  the  spot  at  which  his  father  first  drew 

a 


M2G9188 


IV 

breath,  and  where  his  great-grandfather  first  established  his  residence  in  this  new 
world.  The  humble  dwelling  which  was  first  erected  in  the  forest  still  existed,  at  a 
small  distance  from  that  town,  and  continued,  for  a  considerable  time  after  this,  to  be 
inhabited  by  his  great-grandfather,  who  lived  upwards  of  a  hundred  years. 

It  is  impossible  for  his  survivors  to  recount  the  earliest  incidents  of  his  life  ; 
to  trace  the  first  indications  of  future  character  and  genius ;  or  enumerate  the  little 
adventures  and  connections  of  his  childhood.  The  juvenile  stages  of  our  moral  and 
intellectual  progress,  which  are  in  all  cases  entertaining  and  instructive,  are  so,  in 
a  particular  manner,  when  they  relate  to  eminent  persons.  The  authentic  memo 
rials  of  any  man's  life  and  character  are  only  to  be  found  in  his  own  narrative,  compared 
with  the  observations  of  others.  In  the  present  case,  Mr.  Linn's  modesty  prevented 
him  from  being  his  own  historian,  and  peculiar  circumstances  occasioned  his  early  life 
to  pass  over  without  much  observation  from  others.  We  cannot  any  longer  profit 
by  his  own  recollections  :  the  hand  is  now  cold,  and  the  tongue  silent,  which  were  best 
qualified  to  gratify  the  curiosity  of  love  or  veneration.  We  only  know  that  he  acquired 
the  rudiments  of  knowledge  at  an  age  somewhat  earlier  than  is  customary.  He  was 
initiated  into  the  Latin  language  while  yet  a  child,  and  evinced  very  early  a  strong 
attachment  to  books.  On  his  father's  removal  to  New  York,  when  John  was  only 
nine  years  old,  he  enjoyed  new  opportunities  of  improvement,  under  several  respect 
able  teachers.  The  happiest  period  of  his  life,  however,  in  his  own  opinion,  consisted 
of  two  or  three  years  which  he  spent  at  a  place  of  education  at  Flatbush,  in  Long 
Island.  He  was  in  his  thirteenth  year  when  he  left  this  seminary  for  New  York,  where, 
at  Columbia  college,  his  education  was  completed. 

Fortunate  is  that  man  who  has  spent  any  part  of  his  early  years  at  a  country 
school.  In  youth,  every  object  possesses  the  charms  of  novelty  ;  care  and  disease 
have  as  yet  made  no  inroads  onlhe  heart,  nor  stained  that  pure  and  bright  medium, 
through  which  the  external  world  makes  its  way  to  the  fancy.  The  noise,  the  filth, 
the  dull  sights  and  unwholesome  exhalations  of  a  city  are,  in  consequence  of  this  en 
chantment,  ever  new  and  delightful  to  the  youthful  heart ;  but  how  much  is  this  plea 
sure  heightened,  when  the  objects  presented  to  view,  and  by  which  we  are  surrounded, 
are  in  themselves  agreeable  !  There  is  something  in  the  refreshing  smells,  the  green, 
the  quiet,  the  boundless  prospects  of  the  country,  congenial  to  the  temper  of  human 
beings,  at  all  ages  ;  but  these  possess  ineffable  charms  at  that  age,  when  the  joints  are 


firm  and  elastic,  when  the  pulse  beats  cheerily,  and  no  dark  omens  or  melancholy 
retrospects  invade  the  imagination.  To  roam  through  a  wood  with  gay  companions, 
to  search  the  thicket  for  blackberries,  to  bathe  in  the  clear  running  brook,  are  plea 
sures  which  fill  the  memory  with  delicious  images,  and  are  frequently  called  up  to 
afford  a  little  respite  to  the  heart  from  the  evils  of  our  subsequent  experience. 

Dr.  Linn  was  indebted  to  nature  for  a  healthful  rather  than  a  robust  constitu 
tion.  He  was  a  stranger  to  disease  till  after  he  had  reached  manhood,  and  of  that  con 
stitutional  vivacity,  which  mere  health  confers,  he  possessed  a  very  large  share.  His 
fancy  was  alive  to  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  he  experienced  none  of  those  little  vexations 
and  crosses,  which  some  lads  are  doomed  to  suffer,  through  the  malice  of  school-fellows, 
the  tyranny  of  ushers,  and  the  avarice  of  housekeepers.  Hence,  in  the  latter  part  of 
his  life,  no  recollections  were  so  agreeable  as  those  of  the  time  he  passed  at  Flatbush, 
when  he  revelled  in  the  full  enjoyment  of  health,  and  its  attendant  cheerfulness. 
They  formed  a  vivid  contrast  to  that  joyless  and  dreary  state,  to  which  disease  after 
wards  reduced  him. 

He  was  near  fourteen  years  of  age  when  he  returned  home  and  went  to  college. 
He  now  entered  on  a  scene  widely  different,  in  all  respects,  from  that  to  which  he  had 
been  previously  accustomed :  a  new  system  of  scholastic  discipline,  a  new  circle  of 
associates,  the  sensations  and  views  incident  to  persons  on  the  eve  of  manhood. 

The  ensuing  four  years  were  active  and  important  ones.  The  moral  and  intel 
lectual  dispositions,  which  men  may  possibly  bring  into  the  world  with  them,  become 
fixed  and  settled,  and  receive  their  final  direction  at  this  age.  When  the  appetites  are 
vigorous,  the  senses  keen,  and  the  conduct  regulated  by  temper  and  passion,  rather 
than  by  prudence  and  experience,  we  are  most  alive  to  all  impressions,  and  generally 
take  that  path  which  we  pursue  for  the  rest  of  our  days.  It  was  during  this  period 
that  Mr.  Linn's  taste  was  formed  ;  and  though  his  moral  and  professional  views  under 
went  considerable  changes  afterwards,  the  literary  inclinations  which  he  now  imbibed, 
or  unfolded,  continued  to  adhere  to  him  for  the  rest  of  his  life. 

His  genius  now  evinced  a  powerful  tendency  to  poetry  and  criticism.  What 
are  called  the  fine  writers  of  the  age,  and  especially  the  poets,  became  his  darling 
study.  In  a  youthful  breast,  the  glow  of  admiration  is  soon  followed  by  the  zeal  to 


VI 

imitate  ;  and  he  not  only  composed  several  pieces,  both  in  prose  and  verse,  but  pro 
cured  the  publication  of  some  of  them  in  a  distinct  volume,  before  his  seventeenth 
year.  These  performances  possess  no  small  merit,  if  we  judge  of  them  by  compari 
son  with  the  youth  and  inexperience  of  the  writer.  They  manifest  considerable  read 
ing,  a  remarkably  improved  taste,  and  talents  which  only  wanted  the  discipline  and 
knowledge  of  age  to  make  them  illustrious. 

In  a  city  where  there  is  an  established  theatre,  a  young  man,  smitten  with  a 
passion  for  letters,  can  scarcely  fail  of  becoming  an  assiduous  frequenter  of  its  exhibi 
tions.  Plays  form  a  large  portion  of  the  fashionable  literature  of  a  refined  nation. 
The  highest  powers  of  invention  are  displayed  in  the  walks  of  dramatic  poetry ;  and  what 
the  young  enthusiast  devours  in  his  closet,  he  hastens  with  unspeakable  eagerness  to  be 
hold  invested  with  the  charms  of  life  and  action  on  the  stage.  At  that  period,  some 
performers  of  merit  had  been  recently  imported  from  Europe,  the  theatre  was,  in  an 
eminent  degree,  a  popular  amusement,  and  Mr.  Linn  was  at  that  age  when  the  enchant 
ment  of  such  exhibitions  is  greatest.  The  theatre  accordingly  became  his  chief 
passion. 

To  'austere  and  scrupulous  minds,  the  theatre  is  highly  obnoxious,  not  only  as 
hurtful  in  itself,  but  as  seducing  unwary  youth  into  collateral  vices  and  undue  expences. 
On  this  account,  such  establishments  are  certainly  liable  to  much  censure.  Whether 
reasonably  or  not,  mankind  have  always  annexed  some  disrepute  to  the  profession  of 
an  actor ;  and  hence  no  one  will  give  himself  to  that  profession,  who  cherishes  in 
himself  any  lively  regard  for  reputation.  The  odium  with  which  any  profession  is 
loaded,  even  though  originally  groundless,  has  an  unfortunate  tendency  to  create  an 
excuse  for  itself  in  the  principles  and  manners  of  those  who  adopt  it.  To  make  men 
vicious,  little  more  is  necessary  than  to  treat  them  as  if  they  were  so. 

The  example  of  Mr.  Linn,  however,  may  lead  us  to  distinguish  between  that 
admiration  for  the  drama,  which  leads  some  persons  to  the  theatre,  and  those  dissolute 
and  idle  habits,  by  which  the  attendance  of  others  is  produced,  and  which  evince  a 
taste  for  the  life  and  manners  of  the  ac/or,  rather  than  a  passion  for  excellent  acting, 
The  moral  conduct  of  this  youth  was  at  all  times  irreproachable ;  and  the  impression 
made  upon  his  fancy,  by  the  great  masters  of  the  drama,  seems  to  have  contributed  to 


Vll 

his  security  from  low  tastes  and  vicious  pleasures,  rather  than  to  have  laid  him  open 
to  their  influence. 

When  his  academical  career  was  finished,  he  was  eighteen  years  of  age  ;  and 
it  being  necessary  to  adopt  some  profession,  his  choice,  and  that  of  his  family,  fell  upon 
the  law.     The  law  leads  more  directly  and  effectually  to  honour,  power,  and  profit,  in 
America,  than  any  of  what  are  termed  the  liberal  professions.     As  we  are  strangers 
to  all  hereditary  distinctions,  the  road  to  eminence  is  open  to  all ;  and  while  the  prac 
tice  of  the  law  is  extremely  lucrative,  it  tends  to  bring  forth  talents  and  industry  into 
public  notice,  and  to  recommend  men  to  offices  of  profit,  and  honour.     A  young  man 
who*-  though  meanly  descended,  shows  some  marks  of  genius,  and  has  received  some 
degree  of  education  beyond  that  of  mere  reading  and  writing  his  native  tongue,  seldom 
thinks  of  pursuing  any  mechanical  trade,  and  if  he  has  some  ambition,  he  is  generally 
educated  *o  the  bar.     He  is  thus  placed  in  the  direct  road  of  that  profit  and  honour, 
which  waits  on  political  popularity,  and  may  put  in  his  claim,  with  more  success  than 
the  followers  of  any  other  calling,  for  a  seat  in  the  national  councils,  and  for  any  official 
station.     The  children  of  persons  who  are  raised  above  others,  by  their  riches  or  sta 
tion,  are,  of  course,  whether  qualified  or  not,  destined  to  a  liberal  profession,  and  the 
law  is  generally  preferred,  because  it  affords  the  best  means  of  building  up  a  name  or 
a  fortune.     Mr.  Linn  was  probably  influenced  in  his  choice  of  this  path,  more  because 
it  was  honourable  and  lucrative,  than  because  it  was  particularly  suited  to  gratify  any 
favourite  taste.     He  does  not  appear,  therefore,  to  have  applied  with  much  assiduity 
or  zeal  to  his  new  pursuit :    his  favourite  authors  continued  to  engage  most  of  his 
attention  ;  and  his  attachment  to  poetry  acquired  new  force,  by  the  contrast  which  the 
splendid  visions  of  Shakespeare  and  Tasso  bore  to  the  naked  abstractions  and  torment 
ing  subtleties  of  Blackstone  and  Coke. 

He  was  placed  under  the  direction  of  Alexander  Hamilton,  who  was  a  friend 
of  his  father,  and  who  took  upon  himself,  with  ardour,  the  care  of  perfecting  the  stu 
dies  and  promoting  the  fortunes  of  the  son.  Instead,  however,  of  becoming  enamoured 
of  the  glory,  excellence,  or  usefulness  that  environ  the  names  of  Murray  and  of  Ers- 
kine,  Mr.  Linn  regarded  the  legal  science  every  day  with  new  indifference  or  disgust^ 
which,  at  the  end  of  the  first  year,  induced  him  to  relinquish  the  profession  altogether. 


Vlll 

Before  this  event  took  place,  he  had  ventured  to  produce  a  dramatic  composi 
tion,  called  Bourville  Castle,  on  the  stage.  This  performance  was  one  of  the  many- 
dramatic  works  he  had  previously  concerted,  but  the  only  one  which  was  ever  per 
formed  on  the  stage.  Its  success  was  such  as  had  been  sufficient  to  have  fixed  the 
literary  destiny  of  some  minds.  But  his  dramatic  career  was  scarcely  commenced, 
when  it  was  entirely  relinquished.  His  passion  for  theatrical  amusements  yielded 
place  to  affections  of  a  more  serious  and  beneficial  nature  ;  and  those  religious  impres 
sions,  by  which,  from  his  earliest  infancy,  his  mind  had  been  occasionally  visited,  about 
this  time  assumed  a  permanent  dominion  over  him.  After  much  deliberation,  he  de 
termined  to  devote  his  future  life  to  service  in  the  church. 

Such  a  decision,  in  a  youthful  and  ardent  mind,  could  only  flow  from  deep 
convictions  of  duty.  The  heavy  obligations  which  every  clergyman  incurs,  the  extra 
ordinary  claims  which  are  made  upon  him,  not  only  as  a  teacher  of  virtue  and  religion, 
but  as  a  living  example,  of  their  influence,  form,  to  a  conscientious  mind,  the  most  ar 
duous  circumstances  of  this  profession.  Considered  as  a  calling,  by  which  a  subsist 
ence  is  to  be  obtained,  and  a  family  reared,  its  disadvantages  are  very  numerous.  He 
is  entirely  precluded  from  any  collateral  and  lucrative  application  of  his  time  or  talents, 
not  only  by  the  constant  pressure  of  his  clerical  duties,  but  by  the  general  sense  of  de 
corum  ;  while  the  stipend  he  receives  from  the  church  is  in  many  cases  inadequate  to 
decent  subsistence,  and  in  no  case  does  it  more  than  answer  the  current  necessities  and 
demands  of  a  family.  The  clergyman  deprives  himself  of  all  means  of  providing  for 
the  establishment  of  his  children  in  trade  or  in  marriage,  or  even  for  the  period  of  age  or 
infirmity  in  himself,  by  embracing  a  profession  which,  in  many  cases,  appears  to  have 
a  tendency  to  impair  his  health,  and  to  shorten  the  duration  of  his  life. 

In  Mr.  Linn's  case,  these  sacrifices  were  greater  than  ordinary.  There  were 
many  circumstances  to  inspire  his  generous  mind  with  unusual  and  commendable  soli 
citude  for  the  acquisition  of  fortune,  and  his  new  engagements  were  incompatible  with 
those  pursuits,  which  had  hitherto  formed  his  chief  passion,  and  engrossed  the  greater 
portion  of  his  time.  Such,  however,  was  the  strength  of  his  mind,  and  the  force  of  his 
religious  impressions,  that  not  only  the  prospects  of  power  and  riches,  but  the  more 
bewitching  promises  of  dramatic  popularity,  were  renounced  with  little  hesitation  or 
reluctance. 


IX 

.  New  York  was,  in  some  respects,  an  eligible  place  for  prosecuting  theological 
as  well  as  legal  studies,  but  Mr.  Linn  weighed  its  disadvantages  and  benefits  with  too 
impartial  a  hand  to  allow  himself  to  remain  there.  Along  with  his  former  habits  and 
pursuits,  he  perceived  the  necessity  of  relinquishing  many  of  his  former  companions, 
and  abandoning  the  scenes  to  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  resort.  His  prudence 
directed  him  to  withdraw  as  much  as  possible  from  the  busy  and  luxurious  world,  and 
to  put  far  away  all  those  objects  which  were  calculated  to  divert  him  from  the  object  to 
which  he  had  deliberately  devoted  his  future  life. 

With  these  views  he  left  New  York,  and  retired  to  Schenectady.  He  there  put 
himself  under  the  care  of  Dr.  Romeyn,  a  professor  of  theology  in  the  reformed  Dutch 
church.  His  zeal  and  resolution  appear  to  have  continually  increased  in  favour  of  his 
new  pursuit.  Experience,  indeed,  gradually  unfolded  difficulties  of  which  he  had  not 
been  at  first  aware.  The  importance  and  arduousness  of  the  part  which  he  had  as 
signed  himself  became  daily  more  apparent,  but  these  discoveries  diminished  not  his 
zeal,  though  they  somewhat  appalled  his  courage.  In  a  letter  to  his  father,  written 
during  this  probation,  and  after  a  short  visit  to  his  family,  he  says,  "  When  I  was  in 
New  York,  I  saw  more  clearly  than  I  had  ever  yet  seen,  the  road  of  preferment  which 
I  have  forsaken.  I  saw  more  clearly  than  ever,  that  worldly  friendship  and  favour  fol 
low  the  footsteps  of  pomp  and  ambition.  I  hope,  however,  never  to  have  cause  to  re 
gret  the  choice  I  have  made.  I  hope  to  see  more  and  more  the  little  worth  of  earthly 
things,  and  the  infinite  importance  of  those  which  are  eternal.  As  I  have  no  treasures 
on  earth,  may  I  lay  up  treasures  in  heaven  ! 

"  The  disgust  which  I  contracted  for  the  law  might  perhaps  chiefly  arise  from 
a  sickly  and  over  delicate  taste.  The  pages  of  Coke  and  Blackstone  contained,  to  my 
apprehension,  nothing  but  horrid  jargon.  The  language  of  the  science  was  discord, 
and  its  methods  the  perfection  of  confusion  to  me  ;  and  this,  whether  a  fault  in  me  or 
not,  I  cannot  tell,  but  certain  I  am  it  was  past  remedy.  But  my  aversion  to  the  bar 
had  something  else  in  it  than  the  mere  loathing  of  taste.  I  could  not  bear  its  tricks 
and  artifices  ;  the  enlisting  of  all  one's  wit  and  wisdom  in  the  service  of  any  one  that 
could  pay  for  them. 

"  My  mind,  which  has  been  for  a  long  time  restless  and  uneasy,  and  continually 
on  the  wing,  feels  already,  m  this  state  of  comparative  solitude,  that  sober  and  quiet 


X 

peace,  to  which  it  has  been  long  a  stranger.  I  regfet  not  the  gay  objects  of  New  York, 
which  I  have  exchanged  for  the  now  dreary  scenes  of  Schenectady.  The  pleasures  of 
my  former  life  were  often  the  pleasures  of  an  hour,  leaving  behind  them  the  anxieties 
of  days  and  of  years.  A  very  few  excepted,  I  regret  not  those  friends  of  my  early 
youth,  from  whom  I  have  removed.  Friendship  is  in  most  cases  only  a  weathercock, 
shifting  with  the  lightest  gale,  and  scarcely  stable  long  enough  to  be  viewed.  The 
applause  of  men  I  no  longer  prize,  and  self-approbation  becomes  every  day  of  greater 
value." 

In  this  retreat  he  pursued  his  studies  assiduously.  How  he  employed  his  lei 
sure,  what  books  he  read,  what  society  he  enjoyed,  and  what  particular  advances  he 
made  in  knowledge  or  in  virtue,  in  the  government  of  himself  or  his  acquaintance  with 
the  world,  it  is  not  in  the  power  of  the  present  narrator  to  communicate.  It  appears, 
however,  that  he  indulged  himself  in  some  poetical  effusions,  and  wrote  occasionally 
some  essays  in  prose,  which  were  published  in  a  newspaper  of  that  place.  Though 
not  unworthy  of  praise  from  so  young  a  man,  their  intrinsic  merit  does  not  entitle  them 
to  preservation. 

He  obtained  a  license  to  preach  from  the  classis  of  Albany,  in  the  year  1798, 
having  just  entered  his  twenty -second  year.  Having  now  an  opportunity  of  displaying 
his  qualifications  of  taste,  knowledge,  and  piety,  the  world  soon  became  acquainted 
with  his  character.  His  merits  in  the  pulpit  were  enhanced  by  his  youth  ;  a  circum 
stance  which,  while  it  afforded  an  apology  for  some  exuberances  of  style  and  sentiment, 
imparted  lively  expectations  of  future  excellence.  He  received  calls  from  the  presby- 
terian  church  at  Elizabethtown,  New  Jersey,  and  from  the  first  presbytenan  church  at 
Philadelphia,  than  which  there  were  no  religious  congregations  in  America,  whose 
choice  could  be  more  honourable  to  the  object  of  it. 

He  finally  decided,  though  not  without  much  hesitation  and  reluctance,  in  fa 
vour  of  the  latter  situation.  In  this  he  was  influenced  by  many  motives  besides  those 
which,  in  such  a  case,  would  naturally  operate  upon  a  young  mind,  eager  for  distinction. 
The  principal  of  these  originated  in  diffidence  of  his  own  powers,  which  he  justly  ima 
gined  would  be  subjected  to  less  arduous  trials,  as  an  assistant  minister,  or  co-pastor, 
than  where  the  sole  charge  should  devolve  upon  himself.  Under  the  auspices  of  so" 
illustrious  a  colleague  as  the  late  Dr.  Ewing,  he  hoped  to  enter  on  his  important  office 


XI 

with  fewer  disadvantages  than  most  young  men  are  subjected  to.  The  errors  of  youth 
and  inexperience  would  be  less  fatal,  and  would  be  more  easily  prerented  and  cor 
rected,  than  in  a  different  situation.  The  paternal  treatment  he  always  received  from 
Dr.  Ewing  fulfilled  these  hopes,  and  his  decision  in  their  favour  was  fully  justified  by 
the  veneration  and  affection  of  his  people.  He  was  ordained,  and  installed  in  his  office, 
in  June,  1799, 

He  had  very  early  bestowed  his  affections  on  Miss  Hester  Bailey,  a  young  lady 
of  beauty  and  merit,  daughter  of  colonel  John  Bailey,  a  respectable  inhabitant  of 
Poughkeepsie,  in  the  state  of  New  York.  On  his  settlement  at  Philadelphia,  he  mar 
ried  this  lady.  The  fruits  of  this  alliance,  which  was  interrupted  by  death  at  the  end 
of  five  years,  were  three  sons,  the  two  youngest  of  whom  survived  their  father. 

The  succeeding  two  years  of  his  life  passed  in  diligent  and  successful  applica 
tion  to  the  duties  of  his  pastoral  office.  The  increasing  infirmities  of  his  venerable 
colleague  made  these  duties  in  no  small  degree  heavy  to  a  young  man,  who  was  just 
beginning  his  career,  and  who,  as  yet,  had  not  acquired  the  benefits  of  preparation  and 
experience.  Heavy  though  they  were,  and  punctual  and  meritorious  as  was  his  dili 
gence  in  their  performance,  his  active  spirit  found  leisure  to  compose  two  poems,  the 
last  of  which  was  of  considerable  length,  during  this  interval. 

The  first  was  a  poem  on  the  death  of  Washington,  written  in  imitation  of  the 
style  of  Ossian,  whom  Mr.  Linn  held  in  higher  estimation  than  any  other  poet.  This 
performance  was  a  happy  specimen  of  this  style,  and  the  author's  success  was  the  more 
remarkable,  on  account  of  the  disparity  between  the  theme  he  had  chosen,  and  those 
topics  to  which  the  Caledonian  poet  had  consecrated  his  song. 

His  second  attempt  was  more  grave  and  arduous.  It  was  a  didactic  essay  on 
those  powers  from  which  poetry  itself  derives  its  spirit  and  existence.  The  subject  of 
this  poem  is  explained  by  its  title, "  The  Powers  of  Genius."  It  is  a  rapid  and  pleasing 
descant  upon  the  nature  and  operations  of  genius,  and  a  general  view  of  its  origin  and 
progress.  It  is  accompanied  with  notes,  by  which  doubtful  passages  are  explained, 
and  the  reasonings  of  the  poet  amplified,  confirmed,  and  illustrated,  by  new  and  appo- 
si£e  examples. 

c 


Xll 

Mr.  Linn  has  justified  himself,  in  bestowing  some  of  his  leisure  on  subjects  of  this 
kind,  by  observing,  in  his  preface  to  this  work,  that  "  literature,  next  to  religion,  is  the 
fountain  of  our  greatest  consolation  and  delight.  Though  it  be  a  solemn  truth  that  the 
deepest  erudition,  disconnected  with  religion,  cannot  enlighten  the  regions  beyond  the 
grave,  or  afford  consolation  on  the  bed  of  death,  yet,  when  united  with  religion,  literature 
renders  men  more  eminently  useful,  opens  wider  their  intellect  to  the  reception  of  divine 
light,  banishes  religious  superstition,  and  bows  the  knee,  with  purer  adoration,  before 
the  throne  of  God.  Literature  on  the  rugged  journey  of  life  scatters  flowers,  it  over 
shadows  the  path  of  the  weary,  and  refreshes  the  desert  with  its  streams.  He  who  is 
prone  to  sensual  pursuits  may  seek  his  joy  in  the  acquirement  of  silver  and  gold,  and 
bury  his  affections  with  the  treasure  i  n  his  coffers.  The  nobler  soul,  enlightened  by 
genius  and  taste,  looks  far  above  these  possessions.  His  riches  are  the  bounty  of 
knowledge,  his  joys  are  those  which  wealth  cannot  purchase.  He  contemplates  nature 
in  her  endless  forms,  and  finds  companions,  where  men  of  different  pursuits  would  ex 
perience  the  deepest  solitude." 

Those  phantoms  which  genius  produces,  and  taste  embellishes,  had  a  powerful 
influence  over  the  imagination  of  Mr.  Linn.  External  objects  were  habitually  viewed 
by  him  through  a  poetical  medium,  and  seldom  through  any  other.  Their  attractions, 
in  his  eyes,  and  their  merit,  consisted  almost  wholly  in  their  power  to  inspire  emotion, 
and  exalt  the  fancy.  The  deductions  of  pure  science,  whether  mathematical,  physical, 
or  moral,  he  held  in  very  slender  estimation :  their  simplicity  was  to  him  naked  and 
insipid,  dreary  and  cold.  His  natural  temper,  and  all  his  habits  of  meditation,  emi 
nently  fitted  him  for  a  poet ;  the  subject  of  this  work  had  been  familiar  to  his  earliest 
conceptions  ;  and  he  expatiated  in  this  element  as  in  one  most  congenial  to  his  nature. 

After  describing  genius,  and  fixing  on  invention  as  its  most  suitable  criterion, 
he  proceeds  to  show  the  alliance  between  genius  and  fancy,  judgment  and  sympathy. 
He  then,  in  a  rapid  manner,  describes  the  progress  of  genius,  and  illustrates  the  inde 
pendence  of  rules,  which  it  sometimes  manifests,  by  the  example  of  Shakespeare,  Os- 
sian,  Ariosto,  and  Burns. 

The  influence  of  culture  on  genius  naturally  calls  to  the  poet's  mind  the  image 
of  Edwin,  and  the  various  forms  of  excellence  which  genius  is  qualified  to  uphold  leads 
him  into  an  enumeration  of  celebrated  names,  in  various  departments  of  prose  and  verse. 


Xlll 

Some  of  the  moral  stimulants  and  effects  of  genius  are  next  displayed ;  narra 
tive  is  called  in  to  the  aid  of  precept,  and  the  poem  closes  with  a  concise  view  of  the 
progress  of  genius  in  different  countries  :  Egypt,  Greece,  Italy,  Britain,  and  America. 
To  his  native  country  the  poet  is  patriotically  partial,  and  not  only  predicts  her  future 
eminence  in  literature,  but  deems  the  progress  she  has  already  made  by  no  means 
contemptible. 

The  merit  of  this  performance  has  received  the  best  testimony  of  which  merit 
of  this  kind  is  susceptible,  in  the  approbation  of  the  public.  The  work,  in  a  few  months 
after  its  first  appearance,  demanded  a  new  edition,  and  it  has  been  published  in  a  very 
splendid  style  in  Europe. 

Several  smaller  pieces  were  published  in  the  same  volume  with  this  poem,  some 
of  which  have  merit  considerably  above  mediocrity,  and  manifest  a  genius  in  the  writer 
which  only  wanted  the  habits  of  reflection  and  revision  to  entitle  him  to  a  high  rank  in 
the  fraternity  of  poets. 

Mr.  Linn's  temperament  was  sanguine,  and  his  health  at  all  times  extremely 
variable.  From  his  earliest  infancy,  he  was  liable  to  fits  of  severe  indisposition,  which, 
to  one  of  his  peculiar  temper,  were  of  far  more  importance  than  they  would  have 
proved  to  another.  There  was  a  powerful  sympathy  between  his  body  and  mind.  All 
disorders  in  the  former  produced  confusion  and  despondency  in  the  latter.  He  was 
always  prone  to  portend  an  unfavourable  issue  to  his  disease,  and  being  deeply  im 
pressed  with  the  belief  that  he  was  doomed  to  an  early  grave,  every  -sickness  was 
considered  as  the  messenger  appointed  to  fulfil  his  destiny. 

It  was  not,  however,  till  the  year  1 802  that  his  constitution  received  any  lasting 
or  material  injury.  In  the  summer  of  this  year,  he  set  out  on  a  journey  to  New  York. 
The  weather  being  extremely  hot,  and  the  chaise  affording  no  effectual  protection 
from  the  rays  of  a  burning  sun,  he  was  suddenly  thrown  into  a  swoon,  which  was  fol 
lowed  by  an  ardent  fever.  This  accident  occurred  near  Woodbridge,  in  New  Jersey, 
and  he  was  carried  from  the  road,  by  some  passengers,  to  the  hospitable  roof  of  Dr. 
Rowe,  a  clergyman  of  that  place. 


XIV 

From  this  attack  he  recovered  sufficiently  in  a  few  days,  to  enable  him  to  return 
home  ;  but  from  that  period  to  his  death,  every  day's  experience  evinced  that  this  ac 
cident  had  done  fiis  constitution  an  irreparable  mischief.  His  nervous  system  appeared, 
for  some  time,  to  have  been  chiefly  affected,  and  in  a  way  particularly  distressful  and 
deplorable,  since  it  interfered  with  his  duty  as  a  preacher.  In  attempting  to  speak, 
his  brain  was  frequently  seized  with  a  torpor  and  dizziness,  which  made  it  difficult  for 
him  to  keep  himself  from  falling.  The  same  affection  sometimes  attended  him  while 
walking  or  sitting,  Its  visits  were  capricious  and  uncertain.  It  would  sometimes 
afford  him  a  respite  of  days  or  weeks.  Its  returns  were  sudden  and  unlocked  for,  and 
it  always  brought  in  its  train  a  heavy  dejection  of  mind,  and  equally  unfitted  him  for 
the  performance  of  his  public  duties,  and  for  obtaining  relief  from  any  solitary  occupa* 
tion  or  social  amusement. 

No  one  could  struggle  with  his  infirmity  more  strenuously  than  Mr.  Linn. 
His  family  can  bear  witness  to  his  efforts  to  fulfil  his  public  duties,  notwithstanding 
this  secret  enemy.  So  successful  were  these  efforts,  that  he  often  preached  with  his 
usual  energy  and  eloquence,  when  nothing  but  the  rails  of  his  pulpit  supported  him, 
and  when  a  deadly  sickness  pervaded  his  whole  frame. 

That  his  powers  of  reasoning  and  reflection  were  unimpaired  by  this  accident, 
he  very  soon  afforded  an  incontestible  proof,  in  the  spirit  with  which  he  carried  on  a 
short  controversy,  during  this  year,  with  Dr.  Priestley. 

Dr.  Priestley,  who  acquired  so  much  celebrity  in  Europe,  had,  a  few  years  be 
fore  this,  taken  up  his  abode  in  the  United  States.  His  zeal  for  knowledge  was  by  no 
means  diminished  by  the  circumstances  which  occasioned  his  exile,  and  his  attachment 
to  the  controversial  mode  of  advancing  knowledge  was  as  ardent  as  ever.  His  nume 
rous  publications,  however,  during  the  early  years  of  his  residence  among  us,  were 
chiefly  confined  to  politics  and  chemistry.  His  moral  and  theological  effusions  failed 
to  awaken  the  spirit  of  controversy,  till  the  publication  of  a  short  treatise  on  the  merits 
of  Socrates,  in  the  year  1802.  In  this  performance,  Dr.  Priestley  drew  a  comparison 
between  Jesus  Christ  and  Socrates,  in  which  the  former  was  degraded,  agreeably  to  the 
socinian  system,  to  the  level  of  mere  humanity,  while  the  merits  of  the  latter  were 
exalted  to  a  higher  pitch  than,  in  the  opinioa  of  Mr.  Linn,  strict  justice  allowed. 


XV 

This  comparison  was  instituted  between  the  two  persons,  in  relation  to  their 
moral  qualities  only,  and  Priestley's  design  was  to  maintain  the  superiority  of  Jesus, 
even  admitting  the  most  favourable  suppositions  that  have  been  formed  with  regard  to 
the  character  of  Socrates,  and  the  least  favourable  ones  with  regard  to  Christ.  In  both 
these  points,  however,  he  was  deemed  by  some  to  be  highly  blameable,  inasmuch  as  he 
admitted  and  argued  upon  suppositions  erroneous  and  unjust  in  both  cases. 

The  great  fame  and  veteran  skill  of  Priestley,  and  the  consciousness  of  his  own 
youth  and  inexperience,  did  not  intimidate  Mr.  Linn  from  stepping  forth  in  a  cause  in 
which  religion  and  morality  were  deeply  interested.  Those  points  in  the  conduct  of 
the  Athenian  sage,  which  had  been  hastily  admitted  as  authentic  by  Dr.  Priestley, 
underwent  an  impartial  and  rigid  scrutiny  from  his  young  opponent ;  the  dreams  of 
traditional  credulity  were  subjected  to  a  critical  investigation ;  and  while  the  character 
of  Socrates  was  degraded  to  its  proper  point  in  the  scale,  the  transcendant  merits  of 
Christ,  both  in  his  human  and  divine  capacity,  were  urged  with  unusual  eloquence. 

The  true  nature  and  office  of  Christ  could  not  fail  of  coming  strongly  into  view 
on  this  occasion,  and  a  second  reply,  to  a  second  publication  of  Mr.  Linn,  was  the  last 
and  dying  effort  of  Priestley  on  this  sublunary  stage,  in  favour  of  the  socinian  doctrines. 

The  merits  of  Mr.  Linn  in  this  controversy  seem  to  be  generally  acknowledged, 
both  by  the  friends  and  enemies  of  the  cause  which  he  espoused.  The  latter  withheld 
not  their  admiration  from  the  knowledge  and  genius  displayed  in  these  productions, 
and  which,  while  they  would  do  credit  to  any  age,  were  peculiarly  honourable  and  me 
ritorious  in  so  youthful  an  advocate. 

If  he  has  treated  his  venerable  adversary  with  undue  asperity,  as  some  of  Dr. 
Priestley's  adherents  are  disposed  to  believe,  his  youth,  and  the  importance  of  the 
tenets  he  supported,  will  abundantly  plead  his  excuse  with  impartial  minds.  Instead  of 
deserving  blame  for  that  degree  of  warmth  which  he  displayed,  he  is  rather  entitled  to 
eminent  praise,  for  preserving  his  warmth  within  such  rigid  limits.  Those  who  are 
acquainted  with  the  spirit  of  religious  disputes  will  only  be  surprised  at  the  moderation 
which  so  ardent  and  impetuous  a  mind  was  able  to  maintain,  in  so  delicate  a  contro 
versy,  and  of  which  it  is  difficult  to  find  another  example. 

d 


XVI 

There  was  no  one,  however,  who  regarded  these  asperities  with  less  indulgence 
than  himself.  For  Dr.  Priestley's  attainments  in  the  physical  sciences,  he  entertained 
a  high  veneration,  and  abhorred  that  spirit  of  animosity  and  rancour,  with  which  lite 
rary  controversies  are  generally  managed.  His  own  conduct  in  this  respect,  though 
so  little  culpable,  gave  him  regrets,  which  the  death  of  his  opponent  contributed  to 
augment. 

During  this  period,  he  likewise  indulged  himself  in  putting  together  the  mate-i 
rials  of  a  poem,  to  which  he  intended  to  entrust  his  future  fame,  as  a  poet.  The 
scheme  was  somewhat  of  an  epic  nature,  but  he  did  not  intend  to  restrict  himself  by 
any  technical  rules  or  canons.  He  merely  aspired  to  produce  a  narrative  in  verse, 
which  should  possess  the  qualities  which  render  verse  delightful,  and  make  a  narrative 
interesting  and  instructive. 

The  poem  which  he  left  behind  him,  and  which  his  friends  have  deemed  it  but 
justice  to  his  memory  to  publish,  is,  in  some  respects,  sufficiently  entire  for  the  press, 
but  is,  in  fact,  only  a  fragment  of  a  plan,  copious  and  comprehensive.  It  is  contained 
in  the  present  volume,  and  will  come  before  the  public  tribunal  with  many  silent  apo 
logies  for  its  defects.  The  writer  is  disabled  from  revising  and  correcting  his  own 
labours,  and  sacred  modesty  forbids  a  surviving  friend  to  prune  or  to  retrench,  without 
any  warrant  but  his  own  frail  judgment.  It  may  be  said  to  be,  like  its  author,  called 
to  its  account  burthened  with  those  imperfections,  which  a  longer  preparation  and 
probation  might  have  lessened  or  removed. 

To  those  early  and  memorable  proofs  of  literary  excellence,  Mr.  Linn  was 
indebted  for  the  honour  of  the  degree  of  doctor  in  divinity,  conferred  upon  him  about 
this  time,  by  the  university  of  Pennsylvania.  This  honour,  never  before,  probably, 
conferred  upon  so  young  a  man,  was  decreed  with  a  zealous  unanimity.  It  may  be 
deemed  the  spontaneous  reward  of  merit,  since,  so  far  from  being  sought  for  or  claimed 
by  Mr.  Linn,  neither  he  nor  his  familiar  friends  entertained  the  least  suspicion  of  the 
design,  before  it  was  carried  into  execution. 

His  literary  performances  were  the  fruits  of  those  intervals,  which  his  profes 
sional  duty,  and  the  disease  which  had  rooted  itself  in  his  constitution,  had  aflbrded  him. 
These  intervals  of  health  and  tranquillity  became  gradually  fewer  and  shorter.  Besides 


XV11 

occasional  indispositions,  by  which  he  was  visited  more  frequently  than  formerly,  those 
sensations  became  more  and  more  permanent,  which  always  appeared  to  his  imagina 
tion  unerring  indications  of  approaching  death.  To  a  mind  formed  like  his,  these 
symptoms  had  been  productive  of  a  dreary  melancholy,  had  their  effects  been  confined 
wholly  to  his  own  person,  but,  with  him,  they  received  bitter  aggravation  from  reflec 
tions  on  the  helpless  state  in  which  an  untimely  death  would  leave  his  family. 

No  one  ever  entertained  a  more  lively  sense  of  the  duty  which  his  profession 
had  imposed  upon  him,  nor  more  ardent  wishes  to  be  useful  to  those  around  him.  The 
voice  of  blame,  even  when  unmerited,  shot  the  keenest  pangs  into  his  soul.  The  peculiar 
nature  of  his  feelings,  of  which  there  was  no  external  or  visible  tokens,  agonized  him 
with  the  terror,  that  any  failure  of  parochial  duty  might  be  imputed' rather  to  defect  of 
inclination  than  of  power.  Hence  was  he  continually  led  to  overtask  his  own  strength, 
and  to  hasten,  by  undue  exertions,  that  event  which  was  to  put  a  final  close  to  his 
activity. 

From  the  beginning  of  his  malady,  he  entertained  serious  thoughts  of  resigning 
his  pastoral  office.  Whether  his  own  feelings  conveyed  more  deadly  intimations  than 
his  friends  imagined,  or  whether  his  temper  was  peculiarly  disposed  to  despondency 
and  fear,  he  predicted  nothing  from  these  symptoms  but  lasting  infirmity.  The  exer 
cises  of  the  pulpit  were  peculiarly  unfavourable  to  his  disease.  In  a  different  calling, 
he  imagined  that  his  health  would  be  less  endangered.  Some  calling,  that  might  per 
haps  prove  far  more  arduous,  and  would  certainly  be  much  less  agreeable,  he  was  yet 
extremely  desirous  of  embracing,  provided  it  was  such  as  his  peculiar  constitution 
was  fitted  to  endure  :  but  though  no  such  path  presented  itself  to  his  view,  yet  so  ex 
quisitely  painful  was  it  to  him  to  receive  a  recompense  for  duties  that  he  was  unable 
to  perform,  that  very  often,  during  the  two  last  years  of  his  life,  had  he  formed  the 
resolution  of  absolutely  resigning  his  call. 

As  often  as  these  resolutions  were  formed,  they  were  shaken,  for  a  time,  by 
the  admonitions  and  counsels  of  his  friends.  They  endeavoured  to  call  back  to  his 
bosom  that  hope  which  had  deserted  it ;  they  made  light  of  the  symptoms  he  com 
plained  of;  they  persuaded  him  that  his  infirmities  were  transient;  that  time  alone 
would  dissipate  them  ;  or,  at  least,  that  some  change  of  regimen,  some  rural  excur 
sion,  or  a  larger  portion  of  exercise  than  ordinary,  would  be  sufficient  to  restore  him. 


XV111 

They  insisted  on  the  unreasonableness  of  despairing  of  his  recovery,  before  a  trial 
had  been  made  of  the  proper  remedies.  His  physicians  contributed  to  inspire  him 
with  the  same  confidence.  By  these  means  was  hope  occasionally  revived  in  his 
heart.  He  consented  to  try  the  remedies  prescribed  to  him ;  he  obtained  a  respite 
from  church  service,  and  made  several  journies  in  pursuit  of  health  :  but  all  these  ex 
periments  were  fruitless.  They  afforded  him  a  brief  and  precarious  respite  from  pain, 
and  he  eagerly  returned  to  the  pulpit.  But  his  feelings  quickly  warned  him  that  his 
hopes  were  fallacious :  his  infirmities  were  sure  to  return  upon  him  with  redoubled 
force  ;  despondency  invaded  him  anew ;  he  again  embraced  the  resolution  of  resigning 
his  post,  from  which  he  was  again  dissuaded  with  difficulty  greater  than  before. 

These  mental  struggles  and  vicissitudes  were  alone  sufficient  to  have  destroyed 
a  much  more  robust  constitution  than  his.  The  gloom  which  hovered  over  his  mind 
became  deeper  and  more  settled.  A  respite  from  pain  or  weakness  was  not  sufficient 
to  dispel  it,  even  for  a  time  ;  and  though  his  anxieties  were  more  keen  at  one  time 
than  another,  long  was  the  period  during  which  he  was  an  utter  stranger  to  joy.  If 
he  took  up  a  book,  over  which  the  poet's  fancy  and  the  poet's  numbers  had  shed  the 
most  vivid  hues  and  the  richest  harmony,  and  which,  in  former  days,  had  been  a  foun 
tain  of  delight,  he  found  the  spell  at  an  end ;  it  had  lost  its  power  to  beguile  his  heart 
of  its  cares,  or  impart  the  smallest  relief  to  his  apprehensions.  Did  he  walk  forth  into 
the  fields,  and  survey  nature  in  her  fairest  forms,  the  scene  merely  conjured  up  a 
mournful  contrast  between  the  pleasures  which  the  landscape  once  imparted,  and  its 
present  monotony  and  dreariness.  In  fine,  there  is  little  doubt  that  his  latent  malady 
infected  the  springs  of  life  much  less  rapidly  by  its  own  direct  force,  than  indirectly  by 
its  influence  in  lowering  his  spirits. 

These  feelings  cannot  be  explained  but  by  admitting  the  influence  of  constitu 
tion.  Few  men  had  lea's  reason  to  dread  death,  on  account  of  that  existence  which  fol 
lows  it.  If  a  blameless  life  and  enlightened  piety  could  smooth  the  path  to  the  grave, 
or  if  death  were  indebted  for  its  terrors  merely  to  the  apprehension  of  its  consequences 
in  another  mode  of  existence,  few  men  had  less  reason  than  Mr.  Linn  to  view  it  with 
anxiety.  But  such  is  the  physical  constitution  of  most  men,  that  their  feelings  on  this 
head  are  by  no  means  in  subjection  to  their  reason.  The  raising  of  blood  seems  par 
ticularly  calculated  to  affect  the  spirits  of  the  patient,  and  the  sight  of  that  fluid,  so 
essential  to  life,  oozing  through  unnatural  channels,  is  sure  to  appal  and  disconcert  the 


XIX 

most  courageous  minds.  Mr.  Linn  was  haunted,  from  his  earliest  youth,  with  a  fatal 
persuasion  that  he  should  die  young,  and  of  all  diseases  he  regarded  consumption  with 
most  abhorrence.  His  present  symptoms  were  to  him  infallible  tokens,  not  only  that 
death  was  hastening  on  him,  but  that  it  was  approaching  in  a  form  the  most  ghastly 
and  terrific. 

These  mournful  impressions  acquired  unusual  strength  in  the  winter  and 
spring  of  1804.  He  was  attacked  several  times  with  spitting  of  blood;  and  though 
these  symptoms  were  not  deemed  fatal  or  incurable  by  his  physicians,  they  spoke  a 
language  to  his  own  heart  not  to  be  mistaken.  He  was,  however,  prevailed  upon  to 
try  the  effects  of  a  new  journey.  For  this  purpose,  he  obtained  from  his  congregation 
leave  of  absence  for  two  or  three  months,  and  set  out  towards  the  eastern  states.  By 
this  journey  he  was  little  amused  or  benefited,  and  the  state  of  his  mind,  when  setting 
out  on  his  return,  will  strongly  appear  in  the  following  extract  of  a  letter,  written  at 
Boston,  to  his  father : 

"  Never  was  a  traveller  less  qualified  for  giving  or  receiving  pleasure.  I  can 
not  discover  that  I  have  received  the  least  benefit  from  my  voyage  or  travel,  nor  have 
my  spirits  ascended  the  smallest  degree  above  their  customary  pitch. 

"  I  am  convinced,  that  unless  I  undergo  a  total  renovation,  I  must  leave  the  pul 
pit,  and  endeavour  to  earn  my  bread  in  some  other  way.  If  my  present  impressions 
are  true,  if  appearances  deceive  me  not,  I  shall  need  "  but  little  here  below,  nor  need 
that  little  long."  But  as  all  my  hopes  of  the  world  are  clouded  and  ruined,  could  I 
only  subdue  some,  rising  apprehensions,  and  leave  my  family  provided  for,  I  should  not 
regret  the  blow,  however  speedy,  that  crumbled  me  to  dust.  I  write  not  to  afflict  you, 
but  to  relieve  myself.  It  is  a  strange  consolation,  but  it  is  one  of  the  few  consolations 
I  know.  You  will  therefore  please  to  pardon  me  for  this,  and  for  all  other  offences  to 
wards  you  of  which  I  may  be  guilty.  They  are  inseparable  from  my  cruel  disease. 

"  I  feel  the  ruin  of  an  intellect,  which,  with  health,  would  not  have  dishonoured 
you,  my  family,  or  my  country.  I  feel  the  ruin  of  a  heart,  which  I  trust  was  never 
deficient  in  gratitude  towards  my  God,  or  my  worldly  benefactors.  This  heart  has 
always  fervently  cherished  the  social  affections,  but  now  broods  over  the  images  of  des- 


XX 

pair,  and  wars  ineffectually  with  the  pang  which  bespeaks  my  dissolution.     But  I  must 
be  silent.     I  believe  I  have  gone  too  far." 

After  a  short  stay  in  New  York  and  its  neighbourhood,  he  returned  to  Phila 
delphia,  in  July.  During  the  ensuing  six  weeks,  he  was  attacked  by  indisposition  in 
several  forms.  His  mind  struggled  in  vain  against  the  conviction  of  his  increasing 
and  incurable  infirmities.  As  this  excursion  was  followed  only  by  new  diseases,  his 
hopes  were  totally  subverted,  and  he  wrote  a  letter  to  the  session  of  his  church,  which 
contained  a  resignation  of  his  pulpit. 

This  letter  was  written  from  the  bed  of  sickness,  and  he  was  persuaded  to  recal 
it  a  few  days  afterwards.  Some  expedients  were  proposed  for  relieving  him  from  part 
of  his  professional  duties,  and  his  mind  experienced  some  temporary  ease  from  the 
prospects  which  his  friends  held  out  to  him.  A  day  of  customary  health  revisited  his 
soul  with  a  transient  gleam  of  consolation ;  but  the  fatal  period  was  now  hastening, 
which  was  to  bear  stronger  testimony  than  even  he  himself  had  imagined  to  the  justice 
of  his  apprehensions. 

On  the  thirtieth  of  August  he  rose  with  less  indisposition  than  usual.  The  last 
words  which  he  committed  to  paper  was  on  the  morning  of  that  day,  in  a  letter  to  his 
father,  which,  however,  was  not  delivered  till  some  time  after  the  writer  was  no  more. 
In  this  letter  he  declares  himself  incapable  of  being  burthensome  to  his  congregation. 
«  Does  not,"  says  he,  "  my  obligations  to 'God  and  to  my  people  dictate,  that  I  ought, 
without  farther-trial,  to  relinquish  my  present  charge  ?  May  not  a  righteous  Providence 
point  out  this  conduct  as  the  only  road  to  health  ?  You  know  how  fervently  I  love  the 
study  and  the  teaching  of  divine  truths ;  yet,  if  compelled  by  necessity  to  leave  the  pul 
pit,  may  I  not  still  be  useful  in  some  way  more  corresponding  to  my  strength  ?  Se 
vere,  very  severe,  are  the  dispensations  of  my  God  towards  me  ;  but  I  hope  to  be  able 
to  submit.  Hope,  on  which  I  have  lived,  has  only  glimmered  on  my  path  to  flatter 
and  deceive  me.  I  am  convinced  that  something  must  now  be  done." 

Alas !  these  schemes  for  futurity  were  rendered  unnecessary  before  the  rising 
of  another  sun.  On  the  evening  of  that  day,  he  occasionally  raised  blood,  but  in  a 
degree  scarcely  perceptible.  It  was,  however,  sufficient  to  dissipate  every  ray  of 
cheerfulness,  and  his  heart  sunk  beyond  the  power  of  the  friends  that  were  with  him 


XXI 

to  restore  it.  He  retired  about  half  after  ten  o'clock,  as  little  apprehensive  of  imme 
diate  danger  as  any  of  his  family ;  but  scarcely  had  he  laid  his  head  upon  the  pillow, 
when  some  motion  within  him  occasioned  him  to  say  to  his  wife,  "  I  feel  something 
burst  within  me.  Call  the  family  together:  I  am  dying."  He  had  scarcely  time  to 
pronounce  these  words,  when  his  utterance  was  choaked  by  a  stream  of  blood.  After 
a  short  interval,  he  recovered  strength  and  sensibility  sufficient  to  exclaim  with  fer 
vency,  clasping  his  hands  and  lifting  his  eyes,  "  Lord  Jesus,  pardon  my  transgressions, 
and  receive  my  soul  1" 

Such  was  the  abrupt. and  untimely  close  of  a  life,  which,  though  short,  had  been 
illustrated  by  genius  and  virtue,  in  a  degree  of  which  our  country  has  hitherto  afforded 
very  few  examples ! 

On  the  character  of  Mr.  Linn,  as  a  preacher,  it  is  not  necessary  to  dwell,  among 
those  who  have  enjoyed  opportunities  of  hearing  him.  It  is  well  known,  that  few  per 
sons  in  America,  though  assisted  by  age  and  experience,  have  ever  attained  so  great  a 
popularity  as  he  acquired  before  his  twenty -third  year.  The  merits  which  shone  forth 
with  so  much  splendour  on  his  first  ascending  the  pulpit,  the  discipline  and  experience 
of  four  years  by  no  means  impaired.  Time,  indeed,  evinced  its  salutary  influence  only 
in  pruning  away  his  juvenile  luxuriancies,  and  in  giving  greater  solidity  to  his  dis 
courses,  without  rendering  them  less  engaging. 

As  a  poet,  his  performances  must  also  speak  for  him.  He  took  up  the  pen, 
and  his  effusions  obtained  public  notice  and  regard,  at  so  early  an  age  as  sixteen.  He 
was  not  nineteen  when  he  had  completed  two  regular  dramatic  pieces,  one  of  which 
was  brought  upon  the  stage.  All  his  performances,  however,  candour  compels  us  to 
consider  as  preludes  to  future  exertions,  and  indications  of  future  excellence.  While 
their  positive  merit  is  considerable,  they  are  chiefly  characteristic  of  the  writer,  by 
suggesting  to  us  what  might  have  been  expected  from  him,  had  Providence  allowed 
him  a  longer  date. 

On  his  character  in  general,  the  following  is  the  testimony  of  two  of  his  friends, 
who  had  long  enjoyed  his  intimacy,  and  who  are  better  qualified  than  any  one  living  to 
draw  a  just  portrait  of  him.  One  of  these,  the  Rev.  Mr.  John  Romeyn,  of  Albany, 
speaks  of  him  in  the  following  terms : 


XX11 

u  I  need  scarcely  mention  his  talents  were  of  the  first  order.  His  imagination 
was  glowing,  and  yet  it  was  chaste.  Even  his  earliest  attempts  of  writing  display  a 
soundness  of  judgment  rarely  united  with  fervidness  of  fancy,  especially  in  young 
people.  His  taste  was  formed  on  pure  models.  He  was  capable  of  deep  research, 
though  constitutionally  indisposed  to  k.  His  genius  was  poetic.  He  always  preferred 
a  poem,  or  criticisms  on  polite  literature,  to  any  other  species  of  composition.  His 
constitution  was  sanguine.  This  caused  a  precipitancy  in  some  of  his  actions,  which 
prudence  condemned.  He  had  a  bias  to  pleasure,  a  taste  for  it ;  so  much  so,  that  I 
have  often,  in  reflecting  over  past  scenes,  wondered  how  he  escaped  its  pollutions  as  he 
did.  His  reading  in  early  life  contributed  very  much  to  increase  this  taste.  He  was 
disposed  to  be  romantic  in  his  views  and  conduct.  His  temper  was  quick,  his  sensibi 
lity  exquisite.  He  had  all  the  capricious  feelings  peculiar  to  a  poet.  Though  hasty, 
and  sometimes  rash,  yet  was  he  generous :  he  scorned  meanness.  He  was  warm  m 
his  attachments ;  benevolent  in  his  propensities  to  mankind.  His  anticipated  pleasures 
generally  exceeded  his  actual  enjoyments.  He  was  accustomed  to  dwell  more  on  the 
dark,  than  on  the  bright  side  of  the  picture  of  life.  He  was  prone  to  melancholy,  the 
melancholy  of  genius.  Ofttimes  he  appeared  its  victim,  sitting  for  days  silent,  sad, 
and  gloomy.  He  felt,  even  to  madness,  the  slightest  disrespect,  and  as  sensibly  enjoyed 
attention  paid  to  him.  He  was  not  calculated  to  move  in  a  moderate,  common  course 
with  the  generality  of  mankind ;  he  was  either  in  the  valley  of  gloom  or  on  the  mount 
of  transport;  rarely  did  he  enjoy  temperate,  calm  pleasure.  With  years,  this  sensibi 
lity  was  corrected.  I  myself  perceived  a  change  in  him,  in  this  respect,  the  last  time" 
we  were  together.  In  short,  his  system  was  like  a  delicate  machine,  composed  of  the 
finest  materials,  which  was  liable  to  derangements  from  the  slightest  and  most  trifling 
circumstance,  and  the  continual,  diversified  action  of  whose  parts  tended  gradually, 
though  certainly,  to  a  speedy  destruction  of  the  whole." 

The  Rev.  Mr.  Alexander  M'Leod,  of  New  York,  speaks  of  his  deceased  friend 
in  the  following  terms  : 

"  About  the  time  of  his  beginning  to  preach  the  gospel,  he  was  greatly  agitated 
about  two  of  the  most  important  points  in  the  Christian  life,  What  are  the  characteris 
tics  of  gracious  exercises  of  heart  toward  God  ?  and  What  is  the  connection  between 
the  speculative  truths  of  revealed  religion  and  those  exercises  ? 


XX111 

"  I  advised  him  to  read  Dr.  Owen's  Treatise  on  Communion  with  God.  He 
did  so.  He  was  satisfied  with  it.  He  entered  fully  into  the  doctor's  views  of  that  in 
teresting  subject.  Of  the  state  of  his  mind  I  have  received  from  himself  explicit  in 
formation.  Opposed  to  enthusiasm,  and  naturally  delicate,  he  was  not  very  commu 
nicative  on  such  subjects.  He  did  not  think  it  prudent  to  unbosom  himself  to  many, 
because  he  had  himself  such  a  low  opinion  of  his  Christian  experience,  that  he  thought 
it  probable  a  fair  statement  would  dispose  the  censorious  to  conclude  he  was  entirely 
destitute  of  piety,  and  render  the  nominal  professor  satisfied  with  his  own  attainments  ; 
and  consequently  have  a  tendency  to  hinder  his  public  usefulness,  and  to  encourage  in 
attention  to  experimental  religion.  He  therefore  scarcely  ever  alluded  to  his  own  ex 
perience  in  conversation,  even  with  his  most  intimate  religious  friends.  He  was  not, 
however,  absolutely  opposed  to  conversation  upon  such  subjects.  He  could  throw  aside 
reserve,  and  enter  upon  it  with  freedom,  when  he  was  under  no  apprehension  that  this 
freedom  would  be  abused. 

"  He  was  much  under  the  influence  of  the  fear  of  death,  and  a  reluctance  to  dying. 
But  he  was  not  in  terror  of  future  punishment ;  for  although  he  confessed  himself 
worthy  of  it,  he  trusted  in  that  Saviour  which  the  gospel  offers  to  sinners,  and,  firmly 
persuaded  of  the  safety  of  believers,  cheerfully  hoped  that  his  own  faith,  although  weak, 
was  really  sincere  The  frame  of  his  mind,  in  relation  to  spiritual  things,  was  almost 
uniform  :  never  extremely  gloomy,  never  extremely  joyous.  It  differed  surprisingly 
from  the  natural  temperament  of  his  mind.  In  the  concerns  of  common  life,  he  was 
the  slave  of  sensibility,  the  mere  child  of  circumstances.  He  knew  this.  His  reli 
gious  life  appeared  to  himself  a  third  estate,  supernaturally  called  into  existence  in  the 
empire  of  his  soul,  which  created  a  distinct  interest,  to  which  all  his  affections  were 
drawn  ;  and  which,  gradually  progressing  in  strength  and  in  influence,  checked  the 
dangerous  efforts  of  the  opposite  principles  of  his  constitution,  rendering  his  joys  less 
vivid  and  more  lasting,  and  rendering  his  sorrows  more  easy  to  endure  and  overcome.'* 

No  man  ever  stood  more  in  need  of  the  aid  of  friendship  and  domestic  sympa 
thy  than  Dr.  Linn  ;  and  no  stronger  proof  could  be  given  of  the  purity  and  rectitude 
of  his  character,  than  his  feelings  on  this  head.  His  father  and  his  sisters  were  his 
friends,  in  the  highest  sense  of  that  term.  In  the  bosom  of  his  own  family  he  sought 
for  objects  in  whom  to  repose  his  confidence,  and  from  whom  to  claim  consolation.  To 
entertain  a  general  regard  for  the  wordly  welfare  and  advantage  of  near  relatives  is  so 

f 


XXIV 

common,  and  originates  so  frequently  in  selfish  motives,  that  it  can  scarcely  be  deemed 
a  merit  in  any  one  ;  but  Dr.  Linn's  attachment  to  his  family  was  of  a  higher  order.  It 
led  him,  not  only  into  the  tenderest  concern  for  their  welfare,  but  into  an  intimate  union 
of  his  heart  and  affection  with  theirs.  From  the  time  of  his  entering  on  the  study  of 
theology  to  his  death,  he  kept  up  a  frequent  correspondence  with  his  father.  To  him 
he  imparted  all  his  hopes  and  fears,  and  thus  afforded  the  strongest  proof  of  integrity  of 
thought  and  action,  since  eminently  pure  must  that  mind  be,  which  can  repose  un 
bounded  confidence  in  a  father.  Such  confidence,  indeed,  is  no  less  honourable  to  the 
father  who  obtains,  than  to  the  son  who  bestows  it ;  and  justice  will  not  discountenance 
the  favourable  inference  which  may  be  suggested  by  the  circumstances  of  the  present 
case. 

The  best  companions  of  his  early  youth,  those  whom  a  similarity  of  age  and 
inclinations  had  endeared  to  him,  were,  indeed,  removed,  by  their  diverse  destinies,  to 
a  great  distance  from  him  ;  and  this  circumstance  might  have  been  a  source  of  some 
regret  to  those  who  loved  him,  had  not  the  filial  and  fraternal  charities  glowed  as 
warmly  as  they  did  hi  his  heart,  and  supplied  the  place  of  all  other  friendships, 

He  was  esteemed  and  beloved  by  great  numbers,  but  it  was  his  fondness  for  se 
clusion,  and  not  any  froward  or  morose  passions,  which  occasioned  him  to  have  but 
little  intercourse  with  mankind.  This  little  intercourse  was  by  no  means  fettered  or 
disturbed  by  personal  prejudices.  With  all  his  clear  and  cogent  principles,  on  moral, 
political,  and  religious  subjects,  he  combined  a  charity  open  as  day,  and  extensive  as 
mankind,  and  no  one's  deportment  could  be  more  benign  and  inoffensive  than  his,  to 
wards  those  who  differed  with  him,  even  in  essential  points.  He  avoided  the  com 
pany  of  those  whom  he  had  no  reason  to  love  or  respect.  He  did  not  seek  beyond  the 
small  circle  of  his  nearest  kindred  the  company  of  those  who  had  secured  his  regard, 
but  when  propriety  or  accident  led  him  into  contact  with  theybrmer,  his  treatment  of 
them  was  adapted  to  win  their  reverence,  and  he  never  refused  his  confidence  or  kind 
ness,  when  claimed  by  the  latter.  Short  as  was  his  date,  and  clouded  as  was  the 
morning  of  his  life  by  infirmities  and  sorrows,  few  there  are  whose  memory  will  be 
treated  by  his  adversaries,  if  any  such  exist,  with  more  lenity,  or  will  live  longer  in  the 
hearts  of  his  friends.  To  mankind  at  large  his  short  life  was  useful  and  glorious,  since 
it  was  devoted  to  the  divine  purpose  of  inculcating  moral  and  religious  duty,  and  the 
purpose,  only  less  divine,  of  illuminating  the  imagination  with  the  visions  of  a  glowing - 
and  harmonious  poetry,  C.  B.  B. 


PREFACE, 


THREE  books  of  a  narrative  poem  are  now  offered  to  the  public. 
They  have  been  the  production  of  some  hours  of  recreation.  Their 
plan  and  execution,  it  is  conceived,  are  suitable  to  the  professions  of  the 
minister  of  God,  and  the  author  indulges  the  full  confidence,  that  by 
no  one  will  he  be  considered  as  having  deviated  from  the  strictest  line 
of  professional  duty.  Parts  of  this  poem  are  an  attempt  to  describe 
some  of  those  persecutions  which  Christians  suffered  under  the  tyrants 
of  Rome,  and  to  exhibit,  in  a  rapid  manner,  the  blessed  effects  of  the 
light  of  the  gospel,  when  carried  into  heathen  lands.  This  narrative  is 
written  in  loose  blank  verse,  because  it  was  thought  that  it  would 
prove  the  most  familiar,  and  the  most  adapted  to  the  recital  of  events. 
In  the  night  songs  of  Valerian  and  Azora,  where  rhyme  appeared  to  be 
the  most  suitable,  it  is  employed.  The  scenes  of  this  poem  are  laid  in 
a  country  represented  as  extending  along  the  borders  of  the  Caspian 
sea.  To  those  regions,  a  Christian  flying  from  the  prisons  and  cruel 
ties  of  a  Roman  tyrant  is  conducted.  The  lands  and  tracts  which 


XXVI 

stretch  eastward  from  the  Caspian  were,  during  the  reign  of  Nero,  the 
most  remote  from  the  influence  of  Roman  power ;  and  so  little  have 
those  parts  of  the  globe  been  explored  by  the  traveller,  that  the  author 
thought,  without  carrying  a  poetical  liberty  to  licentiousness,  he  might 
there  place  such  a  people  as  his  imaginary  Montalvians. 

This  poem  is  delivered  to  the  public  as  the  recreation  of  one, 
who,  next  to  the  religion  of  his  Saviour,  would  most  zealously  endea 
vour  to  promote  the  literature  of  his  country.  From  his  continual  and 
weighty  engagements,  he  can  command  but  little  leisure.  His  produc 
tions,  therefore,  of  the  nature  now  published,  must  from  necessity,  if 
written  at  all,  be  hastily  written.  May  he  be  allowed  to  hope,  that  this 
circumstance  may  be  a  little  extenuation  of  some  of  the  many  defects, 
which  it  doubtless  contains  ? 

The  books  which  are  now  given  to  the  press  should  only  be 
considered  as  the  commencement  of  a  poem,  extensive  in  its  design. 
This  may  be  discovered  from  the  contents  of  the  first  book.  Its  pro- 
secution  will  depend  upon  the  author's  leisure,  and  upon  the  reception 
which  those  portions  of  the  work  submitted  to  public  inspection  shall 
receive.  Should,  however,  this  design  never  be  fulfilled,  still  the  pre 
sent  poem  may  be  considered  as  not  left  in  all  respects  in  an  unfinished 
state,  but  as  the  completion  of  a  subordinate  plan. 


VALERIAN. 

A  NARRATIVE  POEM. 


BOOK  I. 


VALERIAN. 


BOOK  I. 


FAR  in  the  east,  washed  by  the  restless  wave, 

Montalvia  spreads  her  bold  and  fruitful  shores: 

There  dwelt  a  people  little  known  to  fame, 

But  brave  and  hardy.     No  historic  page 

Has  held  their  picture  to  succeeding  years,  5 

Nor  told  those  customs,  those  heroic  deeds, 

Those  early  scenes  of  love,  which  might  instruct 

The  children  of  a  distant  age  and  clime. 

From  Thuscan  origin  this  people  sprang. 
A  wandering  tribe,  they  left  their  native  fields  10 


2 

In  search  of  other  climes,  and  on  those  shores, 

Which  they  Montalvia  called,  they  reared  their  tents, 

And  formed  their  homes.     Time,  as  she  flew,  increased 

Their  number  and  their  strength,  and  introduced 

The  arts,  to  ornament  their  domes,  their  walls,  15 

Their  wide-spread  cities,  and  their  waving  fields; 

To  brighten  all  the  joys  of  social  life. 

Through  the  long  waste  of  time,  O  let  me  look 
On  those  wild  regions,  on  their  waving  woods, 
On  their  Jfiigh  rocks,  beat  by  unceasing  storms !  20 

Rise  to  my  view  embodied  forms  of  men ; 
And  hither,  airy  Fancy,  speed  thy  flight ; 
Unroll  thy  record ;  whisper  to  my  ear 
Thy  burning  thoughts ;  lend  me  thy  wings,  and  bear 
Me  over  tracts  unvisited  by  man!  25 

Thy  fairy  visions  oft  have  met  my  eyes, 
When  musing  in  the  dark  of  solitude 
And  night ;  oft,  listening  to  thy  wayward  dreams, 
I've  followed  thee  o'er  cloud-capt  hills,  o'er  streams, 


O'er  plains,  o'er  scorching  sands,  o'er  unsunned  snows,      30 
O'er  deserts  nightly  vexed  by  stormy  blasts : 
Now  be  my  guide  once  more,  and  let  my  song 
Prove  not  unworthy  of  thy  varying  powers, 
And  not  unpleasing  for  the  world  to  hear ! 

A  man  revered  within  Montalvia  lived,  35 

Alcestes  named,  low  bowed  with  weight  of  years. 
He  by  his  king  was  held  in  honour,  love ; 
By  all  his  wide-spread  tribe  in  reverence  held 
For  mild  demeanour.     He  vaunted  that  his  eye 
Pierced  far  into  the'  oblivious  past,  and  scanned  40 

The  map  of  onward  time ;  that  Heaven  to  him 
Revealed  all  secret  things,  from  others  hid ; 
That  oft,  at  midnight,  to  his  hallowed  ear 
Some  heaven-sent  minister,  in  whispers  soft, 
Told  him  the  will  of  those  who  rule  o'er  men. 

Far  in  a  glade,  beneath  a  mountain's  brow, 
Stood  the  low  mansion  of  this  aged  seer. 


4 

Some  mossy  trees  bent  over  his  rude  cot, 

And  swinging  to  the  winds  their  giant  arms, 

Made  music  like  the  dashing  of  the  sea.  50 

A  bed,  some  rushy  seats,  a  lumbering  chest, 

Composed  the  scanty  furniture  within. 

Upon  the  hearth,  with  some  dry  fuel  piled, 

A  watch-dog  slumbered,  grey  with  many  years : 

Attendant  on  Alcestes,  his  fond  master,  55 

And  grateful  to  the  hand  which  gave  him  food, 

He  slumbered  only  where,  the  old  man  lay, 

And  followed  him  in  all  his  museful  walks. 

An  only  child  watched  the  declining  age 
Of  this  kind  man;  Azora  was  she  called:  60 

A  fairer  maid  no  fancy  ever  formed. 
Time  had  flown  by,  and  numbered  eighteen  years 
Since  on  her  birth  her  happy  father  smiled. 
Her  form  was  moulded  by  the  softest  grace; 
Roved  o'er  her  face  bewitching  smiles,  and  o'er  65 

Her  shoulders  fell  a  shining  flood  of  hair. 


No  step  so  lightly  as  Azora's  moved 

In  the  gay  gambols  to  the  tabor's  sound, 

When  yellow  moonlight  slept  upon  the  hills. 

Skilled  was  her  father  to  draw  music  forth  70 

From  strings  that,  likest  those  of  airy  harp, 

Breathed  ravishing  and  sad  mellifluence ; 

And  he  had  taught  his  daughter  all  his  art ; 

And  oft,  when  twilight  stole  upon  the  vale, 

And  in  her  steps  enamoured  Silence  came,  75 

Azora's  harp  was  heard,  Azora's  voice 

Companioning,  far  sweeter  than  its  own. 

On  the  still  cottage  of  Alcestes  rose 
The  dawning  smile,  the  brightening  tints  of  morn. 
Propped  by  his  staff,  and  followed  by  his  dog,  80 

He  bent  his  footsteps  to  the  neighbouring  shore : 
For  still  on  nature  he  delighted  looked, 
Mused  o'er  a  world  of  grandeur,  drear  and  wild, 
With  raptured  thought;  and  yet  his  eye  reposed 
As  fondly  on  the  calmly,  softly  fair.  85 


6 

Arrived,  he  clambered  'midst  the  jutting  rocks, 

And  leaning  thoughtfully  upon  his  staff, 

(Gazed  on  the  waters  rolling  at  his  feet. 

While  wrapt  in  meditation  thus  he  stood, 

A  cloud  obscured  the  beams  of  early  day,  90 

The  winds  uprose,  the  angry  Caspian  raved, 

And  hove  his  billows  higher  in  the  blast. 

Thus  high  above  the  elemental  war, 

The  sage  stood  museful,  muttering  to  the  winds 

The  burthens  of  his  heart  and  wayward  dreams,  95 

When  suddenly  and  oft  his  ears  were  pierced 

By  the  loud  barking  of  his  faithful  dog. 

Curious  to  know  the  cause,  he  turned  his  steps, 

And  sought  his  dog,  whom  at  the  water's  edge, 

Pawing  the  sand,  he  found,  and  on  the  surge  1 00 

Bending  a  wistful  and  inquiring  look : 

When  lo !  the  sage,  lifting  his  eyes,  beheld 

A  man,  whom  waves  had  cast  upon  the  shore, 

With  members  cold  and  stiff,  bereft  of  life. 

Youthful  he  seemed,  and  noble  in  his  form ;  105 


7 

His  face  and  uncouth  raiment  plainly  spoke 
A  stranger,  from  some  distant  coast  unknown. 

Alcestes  raised  him  in  his  aged  arms, 
Hoping  that  life  was  not  quite  flown  beyond 
The  strenuous  call  of  his  health-giving  art;  110 

And  aid  obtaining,  gently  bore  away 
To  his  low  cot,  and  to  his  rushy  bed. 
Nor  was  the  hope  deceitful,  nor  his  call 
Inefficacious.     Soon  he  noted  life, 
Yet  tremulous,  within  the  clay-cold  breast.  115 

With  generous  care  he  and  his  daughter  nursed 
The  unknown  wand'rer  ;  watched  they  o'er  his  couch ; 
By  every  gentle  healing  art  they  wooed 
His  lingering  spirit  back ;  and  back  it  came. 
When  first  he  oped  to  the  fair  light  his  eyes,  120 

He  saw  Alcestes  and  Azora  bending, 
With  anxious  eyes  and  piteous,  o'er  his  bed, 
And  heard  their  cry  of  joy  to  see  him  live. 


8 

Astounded  he  beheld  them,  and  in  voice 

But  faint  and  scarcely  audible,  inquired,  125 

"  In  what  place  he  was  cast,  in  what  strange  land, 

And  who  the  friends  who  saved  a  wretched  wight, 

To  wanderings  born,  to  hardships,  and  to  tears  ?" 

Kindly  the  venerable  man  replied : 

"  Quiet,  O  stranger!  every  doubt  and  fear,  130 

The  winds  have  cast  thee  in  the  house  of  friends. 
I  snatched  thee  from  the  flood,  I  brought  thee  hither, 
And  joy  to  see  thee  live  and  speak  again. 
Receive  then,  youth,  whate'er  my  cell  bestows ; 
Mine  and  my  daughter's  hands  shall  give  thee  food  135 

And  drink,  and  watch  thy  couch  till  strength  returns. 
Rest,  stranger,  rest  in  peace  till  time  restore 
Joy  to  thy  heart,  and  vigour  to  thy  limbs." 

The  old  man's  prayer  was  heard ;  his  guest's  pale  cheek 
Was  visited  again  by  dews  of  health.  140 

A  few  succeeding  days  nerved  his  bold  arm 


Again  with  all  its  wonted  strength.     He  lived 

To  thank  his  kind  preserver  for  his  care, 

To  lavish  blessings  on  his  silver  head. 

By  more  acquaintance  more  his  heart  was  linked  145 

To  his  protecting  friends ;  knit  were  their  souls 

In  bonds  of  union  undis solvable. 

Communing  oft,  the  stranger  asked  the  seer 
For  tidings  of  the  land  before  him  spread, 
To  him  unknown,  and  now  his  place  of  rest.  150 

What  race,  he  asked,  sojourn  in  these  long  vales, 
Or  harbour  in  the  hills  I  see  remote  ? 
And  who  their  judges,  kings,  and  incensed  gods  ? 

To  whom  the  sage,  in  accents  mild,  replied: 
This  realm,  O  stranger,  fame  reports  afar;  155 

Its  kindly  soil  rewards  the  ploughman's  toil, 
And  gives  rich  harvests  to  industrious  hands : 
Green  vallies  meet  the  gladdened  view ;  and  streams 


10 

Profusely  flow  through  fields,  and  fill  the  air 

With  coolness,  and  with  murmurs  musical.  160 

In  shadowy  lawns  the  shepherd's  pipe  is  heard 
To  call  the  swains  and  rustic  maids  to  sport, 
While  blows  the  gale  embathed  in  wholesome  dews, 
And  sweetly  wanders  o'er  their  heads  the  moon, 
And  throws  her  silver  lustre  in  their  paths.  165 

Oft  from  the  thicket,  at  the  still  of  night, 
Or  mountain's  side,  the  wildered  peasant  hears 
A  voice  of  melody,  more  soft  and  shrill 
Than  shepherd's  reed,  to  which  the  fairy  tribes 
Lead  on  the  dance,  and  hold  their  mystic  rites.  170 

Montalvia's  children  are  a  race  devout, 
And  sacred  domes  they  rear  to  many  a  God, 
In  Ombecilla,  their  imperial  seat. 
Their  God  of  Gods  is  great  Oasis.     He 

Lives  in  bright  palaces  above  the  skies;  175 

His  eye  looks  farther  than  his  sun's  beam  goes ; 


11 

His  voice  is  thunder ;  and  his  nod  shakes  worlds. 

The  morning  is  his  smile,  the  storm  his  wrath ; 

He  knows  the  ways  of  men ;  approves  the  good, 

But  looks  indignant  on  the  bad;  and  when  180 

The  good  man  dies,  he  wafts  him  to  his  halls, 

Where  shines  a  blissful  day  that  never  sets : 

But  when  he  sweeps  the  bad  man  from  the  earth, 

He  thrusts  the  struggling  ghost,  through  gaping  rift, 

Far  into  earth's  vast  womb,  where  darkness  dwells,  185 

With  other  guilty  souls,  an  endless  doom. 

Oasis  and  his  vassal  Gods  befriend 
The  good :  but  there  are  Gods  malign,  his  foes, 
And  foes  of  all  good  men,  and  foes  of  joy. 
Evil  is  their  good,  and  groans  their  music  sweet;  190 

Death  is  their  sport,  and  blood  their  banquet  best ; 
They  blow  man's  frantic  passions  into  rage, 
And  goad  his  footsteps  on  to  midnight  deeds  ; 
They  loose  the  hell-hounds  of  unending  strife, 
And  rain  on  earth  diseases,  plagues,  and  death.  195 


12 

Frequent  on  altars  are  the  victims  laid, 
As  offerings  to  the  Gods.     Those  who  are  kind, 
Benevolent,  and  just,  and  friends  of  men, 
Are  honoured  with  the  sacrifice  of  lambs. 
From  these  their  votaries  seek  the  smile  of  peace,  200 

The  fruitful  field,  the  sky  without  a  storm, 
The  richest  blessings  of  indulgent  heaven. 
To  stern  malignant  deities  are  slain 
The  beasts  congenial  to  their  savage  mind: 
The  bull,  the  tyger,  wild  boar  of  the  wood  ;  205 

And  oft  the  warrior  youth,  the  blooming  maid, 
Are  offered  to  appease  their  deadly  rage. 

O'er  wide  Montalvia  Oriander  reigns, 
Raised  by  the  people's  voice  to  kingly  state. 
Of  stature  huge  he  is,  of  temper  fierce,  210 

But  brave,  and  skilled  to  rule  o'er  restless  men. 
His  hue  is  swarthy  ;  his  deep-seated  eyes 
Throw  glances  on  his  foes  that  check  their  steps, 
And  shoot  a  dizzy  terror  through  their  brain. 


13 

Alike  terrific  are  his  step  and  mein:  215 

He  moves  as  he  well  knew  his  high  desert, 

As  one  born  to  subdue.     When  wronged,  his  wrath 

Is  like  the  ocean,  when  in  rage  he  heaves 

Most  high  his  billows  of  destruction  ;  yet 

Not  tearless  nor  unmoved  by  woe  is  he,  220 

And  generous  deeds  are  not  unknown  to  him. 

He  loves  his  race  ;  and  threescore  years  have  rolled 

Since  he  has  ruled  them  wisely  in  his  love, 

Fought  all  their  battles,  and  engrossed  their  dangers, 

Oft,  in  their  songs,  the  poets  of  the  land  225 

Teach  youthful  ears  and  credulous,  that  their  king 
Has  sprung  from  Gods,  and  is  to  Gods  allied 
In  wisdom  and  in  strength,  and  ne'er  to  die. 
The  king  assents,  and  his  best  gifts  enrich 
The  tuneful  authors  of  his  deity.  230 

Gondalbo  is  the  monarch's  only  son, 
A  son,  alas !  unworthy  of  his  sire. 

D 


14 

No  generous  passions  warm  his  sullen  soul, 

But  full  of  guile  and  cruelty  is  he ; 

In  war  the  first,  but  last  in  arts  of  peace  ;  235 

His  dark  eye  rolls  in  wiles ;  his  scowling  glance 

Gives  presage  of  the'  unquiet  soul  within ; 

Strong  and  beast-like  his  lusts,  that,  when  provoked, 

Will  tread  their  perilous  paths  neck-deep  in  blood. 

Oft  does  the  father  with  a  stern  rebuke  240 

Chastise  the  son ;  but  still  his  stubborn  will 

Breaks  through  restraint ;  his  overbearing  pride 

Scorns  the  keen  lash,  and  throws  the  rein  aside. 

Yet  of  Gondalbo  highly  deem  the  sons 

Of  war,  and  wild  adventure's  restless  bands:  245 

A  numerous  host  of  such,  with  ill  intent, 

He  wins,  and  binds  them  to  some  desperate  cause. 

Strong  in  her  men,  and  proud  in  wealth  and  arts, 
Fair  Ombecilla  stands,  and  heaves  her  walls 
And  battlements  high  in  the  airy  realms.  250 

A  towered  wall  hems  in  her  eastern  side, 


15 

Her  treasures  guarding  from  irruption  rude  ; 

The  wide-spread  Caspian  laves  her  western  skirts ; 

The  banks  are  fenced  by  rocky  pinnacles, 

On  which  the  strong-winged  eagle  builds  his  nest,  255 

And  safely  mues  his  ravenous  young  in  blood ; 

And  hence  the  eye  would  sicken  as  it  gazed 

On  the  dark  waters  refluent  at  their  foot. 

Within  these  bounds  seven  gorgeous  fanes  arise, 

With  altars  flaming  to  the  country's  Gods.  .  260 

On  a  near  hill,  o'ertopped  with  spiry  trees, 

The  fane  of  great  Oasis  proudly  stands, 

And  looks  down  on  the  city  and  the  plains. 

Awe-struck  and  reverend  are  the  eyes  that  gaze 

Upon  its  walls,  gigantic  and  eternal,  265 

Its  glittering  domes,  and  its  columnar  gates, 

That  catch  the  dawning  beams  of  orient  day. 

Its  courts  at  yearly  festivals  are  thronged 

By  wondering  crowds,  whom  a  divine  command 

Calls  from  the  utmost  bounds,  the  circuit  wide,  270 

Of  Altai's  endless  vales  and  long-drawn  slopes. 


16 

Within  the  walls  the  roving  eye  is  lost 

'Midst  waving  hangings,  and  the  sounding  aisles, 

'Mid  sculptured  forms,  and  godlike  pageantry ; 

There  meets  the  sight  an  altar  to  the  God  275 

Whom  most  they  love ;  there  oft  the  victim  slain 

Encrimsons  with  its  blood  the  priestly  hand ; 

There  oft  the  roof  re-echoes  to  the  voice 

Of  prayer,  to  hymns  and  instrumental  sounds. 

An  aged  priest,  Abassus  called,  presides,  280 

In  robes  of  white,  and  pomp  pontifical : 
Next  to  the  king  in  honour  is  he  held 
His  voice  in  council  is  esteemed  most  wise. 
His  beard  of  snow  falls  reverend  o'er  his  breast, 
And  gravity  sits  throned  upon  his  brow.  285 

Childless  is  he,  for  jealous  Gods  refuse 
To  share  his  heart  with  earth-begotten  cares. 
He  tends  a  taper's  solitary  ray, 
That  trembles  on  the  temple's  dusky  walls, 
And  whose  pure  flame,  with  oils  ambrosial  fed,  290 


17 

Must  never  die ;  for  in  that  death  would  sink 

King,  priest,and  votary,  halls,  and  fanes,  and  fields, 

Gulphed,  at  the  instant,  in  one  yawning  grave. 

In  narrow  cell,  these  hallowed  walls  within, 

In  holy  trance  he  sits,  to  watch  the  pledge  295 

Of  universal  safety  glimmering  near ; 

Save  when  the  king,  a  gorgeous  train  attending, 

Comes  to  the  temple  to  partake  the  rites 

Ordained  by  great  Oasis,  when  the  sun 

Sets  out  anew  upon  his  yearly  road.  300 

Around  the  sacred  fane  the  tombs  of  kings, 
For  virtue,  warlike  or  pacific,  famed, 
Who  lived  to  save  their  country,  or  who  died, 
Are  built,   with  emblems  and  with  trophies  decked. 
The  precincts  unprofaned  spread  far  and  wide  305 

Around  these  wajls ;  a  woody  wilderness, 
A  forest  of  primeval  growth,  the  ground 
Shadows  with  leafy  canopy  obscure. 
The  city's  din,  by  distance  rendered  sweet, 

l 


18 

Strikes  the  sad  ear  of  him  who  roves  beneath,  310 

And  keeps  alive  the  holy  mystic  flame. 

Hard  by  the  broken  cliff  which  skirts  the  flood 

The  kingly  palace  stands,  in  towered  state, 

And  frowns  defiance  on  the  war  of  years ; 

A  limpid  stream,  that  through  the  city  flows,  315 

Mixes  in  rushing  cadence  with  the  sea. 

Ah,  sweet  Hyphasis  !  natal  fountain  sweet, 
May  never  hostile  footsteps  bathe  in  thee, 
And  ne'er  rude  battle  mingle  with  thy  murmur ! 
Well  pleased,  the  maids  of  Ombecilla  bathe  320 

Their  fervid  temples  and  their  floating  hair 
In  thy  enamoured  wave ;  and  chief  I  love 
To  gaze  in  thy  broad  mirror  at  the  skies, 
While  many  a  bark,  at  evening's  peaceful  hour, 
Skims  lightly  o'er  thy  wave,  and  all  thy  shades  325 

Give  echo  to  the  oar  and  carman's  song. 
Hyphasis  and  her  far-spread  arms  bestow, 


19 

Without  the  walls,  oe'r  wide -extending  plains, 

O'er  many  a  waving  field,  luxuriance  green ; 

Abundance  laughs  around;  the  lowing  herds  330 

Are  heard  among  the  vales ;  the  clambering  goats 

Look  from  the  hillock's  brow ;  and  bleating  flocks 

Crop  the  green  meadows,  mnd  repose  in  shades ; 

While  from  beneath  each  branching  fir  looks  out 

The  cottage  roof,  in  sweet  and  humble  guise.  335 

The  plains  are  gladdened  by  the  jocund  voice 

Of  shepherd,  calling  to  his  errant  flock, 

The  pipe's  shrill  music,  and  industrious  sounds. 

Skirting  the  north,  a  chain  of  mountains  spreads, 
That  with  their  blue  heads  pierce  the  passing  clouds.       340 
No  culture  tames  the  fierceness  of  their  soil ; 
The  larch-tree  climbs  their  steep  and  rocky  side ; 
And  there  a  ruffian  horde  in  old  time  dug 
Their  darksome  dens,  and  thence,  e'en  now,  are  wont, 
At  night's  still  hour,  to  come  in  search  of  spoil,  345 

And  led  by  thirst  of  blood. 


20 

These  bands  are  led 
By  Artaban,  of  giant  port,  and  skilled 
In  wiles,  and  all  the  robber's  artifice. 

His  arm  descends  like  some  high  falling  tower  350 

On  the  sad  stranger  wandering  in  the  dark ; 
And,  like  a  whirlwind,  in  his  wrath  he  sweeps 
Unsheltered  villages,  unguarded  flocks. 
Grim-visaged  man  !  none  but  the  brave  can  meet 
The  terrors  of  his  dark  and  flashing  eye,  355 

Or  mark  the  bend  of  his  o'ershadowirrg  brows  ; 
His  stride  is  dreadful  to  the  field  of  strife, 
And  his  dark  armour  fear-strikes  hosts  of  men. 

He  as  a  God  leads  forth  his  vassal  clan ; 
His  anger  slays,  his  nod  dispenses  life ;  360 

He  bids,  and  they  who  dare  to  faulter,  straight 
Are  piecemeal  hewn  by  his  indignant  sword, 
And  thrown  to  blood-hounds  to  regale  their  thirst. 
He  tramples  under  foot  the  power  of  kings, 
And  walks  secure  'midst  ambush,  and  o'er  mines.  365 


21 

Loud  Rumour  is  most  busy  with  his  name  ; 

It  is  her  trade  to  bruit  in  our  ears 

His  marvellous  feats  in  council  and  in  war. 

She  tells  us  how  a  troop  of  fiery  youth, 

Five  banded  thousands  were  they,  culled  with  care  370 

From  out  the  hardy  sons  of  southern  hills, 

Assailed  him,  whom  they  single,  shieldless  found, 

At  his  spare  meal,  in  bottom  of  a  cave. 

Alas !  their  leagued  swords  availed  them  naught 
Against  his  iron  arm;  they  fell  in  heaps,  375 

Like  grass  before  the  scythe ;  he  thinned  their  files, 
Till  slaughter- weary,  or  with  pity  touched, 
His  hand  forbore ;  and  bounding  o'er  the  heads 
Of  those  who  fled,  he  vanished  clean  away. 

A  pilgrim  clambering  o'er  the  rocks,  benighted,  380 

Sought  shelter  from  the  storm  within  his  cave. 
Artaban  then  was  prowling  on  the  plains. 
The  stranger,  wearied,  threw  himself  to  rest 


22 

On  some  dry  leaves,  and  closed  his  eyes  in  sleep. 

Not  long  he  slumbered,  when  the  piercing  voice  385 

Of  signal-horn  was  heard.     He  waked  and  saw, 

Entering  the  cave's  rude  door,  the  scowling  chief. 

The  pilgrim  started  from  his  leafy  bed. 

His  dress  and  aspect  told  his  name,  and  now 

Not  e'en  to  supplication  did  the  wretch  390 

Betake  himself,  for  ARTABAN  SPARED  NONE, 

And  fame  through  every  land  had  blown  the  sound. 

The  chief  quick  darted  at  the'  intruder  eyes 
Of  fier.ce  suspicion  ;  from  his  sheath  outflew 
The  sword  that  fear-struck  mortals  deem  divine.  395 

But  paused  the  chief,  and  while  his  fiery  eyes 
Roved  o'er  the  figure  of  the  trembling  man, 
His  tattered  raiment,  snowy  front,  and  back 
By  age  bent  double,  he  his  rage  dismissed, 
In  accents  mild  he  bade  the  pilgrim  stay,  400 

Rest  on  his  leaves  the  night,  and  break  his  bread, 
Sprinkled  with  sacred  salt.     When  day  returned, 


23 

In  decent  weeds  he  clothed  him,  his  slow  steps 
He  guided  safely  through  the  thicket's  maze ; 
The  track  of  men  regained,  he  bade  God  speed. 

Far  in  the  utmost  west,  and  faintly  seen 
From  Ombecilla's  tallest  pinnacle, 
The  hills  are  robed  in  forest  that  spreads  wide, 
O'er  many  a  league,  its  silence  and  its  shade. 


The  traveller  wandering  through  its  trackless  vales       410 
Loses  the  sun's  blest  guidance,  and  in  vain 
His  eyes  are  upward  turned,  in  vain  they  seek 
The  lode-star's  sparkling  ray,  or  zenithed  moon ; 
No  sounds  of  kindly  import  greet  him ;  beasts 
That  prey  on  men  beset  him,  and  their  rqar  415 

With  rushing  torrents  a  dread  concert  keep.. 

Here  oft  come  hunters,  armed  for  sylvan  war, 
More  perilous  than  the  strife  of  spear  with  spear : 


24 

With  hounds,  and  horn,  and  steeds  in  panoply, 

They  come  to  rouze  the  monster  from  his  den.  420 

Here  oft  the  prince,  with  well  appointed  band, 

Keen  for  the  arduous  sport,  doth  beat  the  shades, 

Where  lions,  respited  from  hunger,  crouch. 

And  here  the  springing  tyger  he  encounters  ; 

And  numerous  are  the  spoils  of  panthers  grey,  425 

Of  brindled  lioness,  and  speckled  pard, 

And  antlered  hind,  that  deck  his  ghostly  halls. 

And  .such  unthrifty  warfare,  such  rude  sport, 
Next  to  man-killing,  most  delights  his  soul. 
Blood  slakes  his  thirst;  the  cry  of  agony  430 

More  sweetly  wooes  his  ear  than  harp,  or  voice 
Of  choral  angels  ;  writhing  pangs  of  babes, 
Pierced  by  steel-headed  arrows,  feast  his  eyes, 
More  richly  than  the  rose,  whose  crimson  dyes 
The  cheek  of  virgin,  when  her  bridal  lamp  435 

Is  lighted,  feasts  the  eye  of  him  she  loves. 


25 

Deep  bosomed  in  these  woods,  in  ancient  time, 
There  stood  a  fane,  to  the  great  mother  earth 
By  hands  devout  up-reared;  a  hill's  broad  top 
It  crowns,  and  circling  torrents  rush  around.  440 

'Twas  once  a  mansion,  walled  full  high  and  strong ; 
Within  were  sightly  halls  and  doors  embossed ; 
But  now,  of  all  but  old  renown  bereft, 
It  stands  a  tottering  crumbling  ruin,  grey 
With  moss,  and  clad  with  ivy,  and  the  yew  445 

Shades  its  high  altars ;  gape  forlorn  its  groves, 
Defaced  and  empty :  for  the  gods  that  held 
The  sway  o'er  Ombecilla's  infant  years, 
Their  hill-top  fanes,  their  pageantry,  their  priests, 
Have  vanished;  and  new  gods,  new  priests,  new  rites,     450 
Have  filled  their  place :  a  worship  brought  from  far 
By  pilgrim  sages,  whom  the  learned  South 
Bred  in  her  courts,  and  with  persuasion  armed. 

These  grassy  halls,  unwindowed  and  unroofed, 
Are  fit  for  meditation;  museful  steps  455 


26 

Would  love  to  rove  amid  these  mouldering  aisles, 

To  ponder  on  old  time,  man's  fitful  life, 

And  death  that  levels  all  things,  if  the  haunt 

Were  empty  of  all  beings  else,  and  free 

From  lurking  mischief.     But  not  so  :  for  deep  460 

In  narrow  cell,  within  these  bounds  immured, 

There  sits  a  hoary  wight,  deep  versed  in  arts 

Of  direful  magic,  potent  to  controul 

Great  Nature's  kingdom.     There,  on  stony  couch 

Reclined,  he  reads  Contingency's  vast  book.  465 

To  those  who  dare  the  perils  of  the  wood, 

And  homage  pay  to  necromantic  power, 

He  opes  his  lips,  expounding  destiny. 

Great  is  the  peril,  for  not  beast  alone, 

But  savage  man,  prowls  round  this  dark  retreat ;  470 

Wild  men,  and  artless  but  in  feats  of  war, 
Slow  to  all  kindness,  but  to  vengeance  swift ; 
With  tongues  unbroken  to  obsequious  curb, 


27 

With  arms  by  rustic  labour  unsubdued, 

The  Morglan  hides  his  spoil  amidst  these  hills.  475 

Ere  Thusca  and  his  children  reached  these  shores, 
From  hill  to  sea  this  roaming  race  diffused 
Their  ill-compacted  tribes  :  hence  to  Montalvia's  sons 
They  bear  the  hatred  due  to  hostile  men 
Who  robbed  them  of  their  fair  and  wide  domain.  480 

Unending  war  they  wage,  and  oft  molest, 
By  violent  incursion,  e'en  the  walls 
Of  Ombecilla,  and  their  brazen  trump 
Shakes  all  her  hearts ;  but  oftener  have  they  found 
Graves  in  the  fields  their  sword  and  brand  had  wasted.     485 
And  oft,  the  tide  of  war  against  them  flowing, 
The  vengeful  sword  of  Thusca's  sons  have  left 
Nought  but  a  meagre  remnant  of  the  race, 
To  rue  their  mad  ambition,  and  to  brouze 
On  Nature's  poor  provision,  cooped  in  rocks.  490 


28 

Alcestes  ceased,  and  with  him  ceased  the  day. 
Now  o'er  the  city,  o'er  the  plains,  descend, 
Long-drawn,  the  mantle,  dew-besprent,  of  Eve ; 
The  moon-beams  tremble  on  the  Caspian  wave  ; 
The  hum  of  men,  the  bay  of  dogs,  is  hush'd.  -  495 

Sleep  comes  to  heal  all  wounds  :  come  then  to  me ; 
And  thou,  O  Muse,  seal  thy  inspired  lips. 
The  tenants  of  the  cot  to  rest  betake 
Their  weary  limbs  ;  Valerian  on  his  couch 
Sunk  in  soft  slumbers,  not  unvisited  500 

Of  dreams,  that  whispered  of  futurity. 


END     OF     BOOK     I. 


VALERIAN. 

A   NARRATIVE   POEM. 


BOOK  II. 


H 


VALERIAN. 


BOOK  II. 


1HE  jocund  morning  rose:  from  his  high  hill 
The  sun  looked  down,  and  gladdened  all  the  plain ; 
Nature  awakened  from  her  still  repose, 
And,  starting,  shook  the  dew-drops  from  her  robe. 
The  happy  inmates  of  Alcestes'  cot  5 

From  slumbers  broke,  and  hailed  the  blush  of  day : 
Assembling  round  the  social  board,  they  joined 
In  conversation  sweet  and  unrestrained. 
Anxious  for  him  whose  life  he  had  preserved, 
Alcestes  asked  his  guest  whence  he  had  come ;  10 

To  what  far  region  he  designed  his  course, 


32 

When  he  was  cast  upon  these  eastern  shores. 
To  whom  the  youth  in  accents  mild  replied : 

Kind  reverend  father,  nought  shall  I  withhold 
From  one  to  whom  protection,  life  are  due.  15 

My  tale  will  not  detain  your  patience  long ; 
And  nought  it  has  to  please  or  interest, 
Unless  it  meet  an  interest  in  your  love. 
Valerian  I  am  called ;  I  came  from  Rome  ; 
I  left  a  father  in  those  splendid  walls ;  20 

I  fled  from  persecution,  pain,  and  death : 
For  I,  of  Christian  faith,  was  hunted  down 
By  tyrants,  thirsting  for  the  blood  of  those 
Who  would  not  own  the  idol  gods  they  serve,. 
And  on  their  altars  burn  their  sacrifice.  25 

My  memory  turns  in  horror  from  the  scenes 
Which  I  have  witnessed  in  the  walls  of  Rome  ; 
My  soul  is  sick  when  I  recal  the  rage 
Which  breathed  destruction  on  the  friends  of  Christ ; 


33 

Which  followed  them  with  chains,  with  sword  and  fire,       30 
With  deaths  most  exquisite,  with  glutted  shouts. 

O  why  delayed  the  thunders  of  my  God  ? 
Why  slept  the  arm  of  his  almighty  wrath  ? 
Ah !  he,  with  wise  and  merciful  designs, 
Allowed  to  impious  men  a  short-lived  joy,  35 

To  show  more  signally  his  ruling  power ! 
Ye  streets  which  flowed  in  torrents  with  the  blood 
Of  brethren  butchered  in  the  public  view ! 
Ye  midnight  cells  which  listened  to  their  groans ! 
Ye  flames  which  lit  the  horrors  of  the  night,  40 

And  gave  their  tortures  to  the  startled  eye  ! 
Ye  theatres  which  saw  them  torn  by  beasts, 
And  oft  resounded  with  the  pressing  throngs, 
Who  gazed  delighted  on  the  horrid  sight ! — 
Bear  witness  to  the  cruel,  damning  deeds,  45 

Of  Rome's  fell  tyrant  and  his  wretched  slaves ! 


34 

Attentive  to  his  words,  Alcestes  asked 
Who  were  those  Christians?  by  what  faith  disjoined 
From  those  relentless  men  who  sought  their  lives? 

To  which  the  youth  continuing  thus  replied:  50 

The  God  who  made  all  men,  who  all  preserves, 

Beheld  in  pity  our  deluded  race 

Plunged  in  distress,  in  error,  and  in  sin; 

And,  from  his  throne  of  glory  in  the  skies, 

Sent  down  a  messenger  to  dwell  with  men,  55 

To  be  a  light  to  this  sad  darkened  world, 

To  show  to  us  the  paths  of  truth  and  peace, 

To  suffer  and  to  die  that  we  might  live. 

This  holy  being  was  the  Son  of  God  ; 

By  him  were  made  the  mighty  worlds,  which  roll  60 

Amidst  the  regions  of  unbounded  space. 

He  spake,  'twas  done,  all  nature  took  its  birth, 

The  heavens  were  spread,  the  solid  earth  stood  firm, 

And  dashed  the  billows  of  a  thousand  seas. 


35 

Christ  was  the  name  which  this  Messiah  bore  :  65 

Equal  was  he  to  the  paternal  God, 

In  power,  in  wisdom,  and  in  grace  divine. 

A  few  years  back,  this  God  most  high  appeared 

On  earth,  and  took  the  lowly  form  of  man. 

In  poverty  and  sorrow  he  was  nursed;  70 

He  wandered  as  an  outcast  in  the  world, 

Which  he  had  made,  which  moves  at  his  command. 

He  bore  with  patience,  and  without  a  murmur, 

The  persecutions  and  the  scorn  of  men ; 

With  willing  hand  he  took  the  cup  of  woe,  75 

Exhausted  to  its  dregs  the  bitter  draught, 

And,  in  atonement  for  the  sins  of  men, 

To  justice  rendered  satisfaction  full. 

When  thirty  years  had  seen  this  God  on  earth, 
He  then  began  to  publish  to  the  world  80 

His  name  divine,  his  messages  of  grace. 
He  spake  as  man  before  him  never  spake ; 
Revealed  the  will  and  councils  of  our  God, 


36 

By  mighty  works  proclaimed  his  peerless  power, 

And  bade  the  world,  woe-wearied  and  benighted,  8  5 

To  follow  him,  to  reverence  his  commands, 

And  he  would  lead  them  on  to  better  worlds, 

Where  joy  unceasing  ever  dwells  with  him. 

Many  who  heard  this  Saviour  speak  believed, 
Nobly  renounced  the  world,  and  followed  him.  90 

From  these  intrepid  followers  twelve  he  chose, 
Who  should  be  ever  with  him,  mark  his  ways, 
And  when  he  left  the  earth  record  his  words, 
His  actions,  and  his  will,  and  give  to  men 
The  richest  boon  which  heaven  itself  could  give.  95 

Though  many  heard  his  supplicating  call, 
Yet  more,  indignant,  answered  him  with  scoffs : 
Against  him  slander  vented  all  its  rage, 
And  lavished  on  his  head  opprobrious  names. 

His  doctrines  were  opposed  to  brutal  lusts  ;  100 

He  nursed  the  spirit  for  a  heavenly  world ; 


37 

He  told  his  followers  to  be  chaste  and  meek, 

To  look  and  live  above  earth's  fleeting  joys. 

Such  holy  dictates  were  in  wrath  received 

By  those,  who  threw  on  passion's  neck  the  rein,  105 

And  plung'd  unheedful  in  the  depths  of  vice. 

Betrayed,  derided,  by  his  friends  forsaken, 

This  Saviour-God  was  seized  by  daring  hands, 

By  Jewish  rulers  was  condemned  to  die, 

And  on  the  hill  of  Calvary  was  raised,  110 

And  nailed  to  an  accursed  cross,  and  there, 

In  sight  of  earth  and  heaven,  he  bled  and  died : 

He  gave  the  spirit  which  he  took  on  earth 

Into  the  arms  of  God,  and  closed  his  work, 

On  which  he  entered  for  the  sins  of  men.  115 

Nature  beheld  the  awful  scene  with  dread: 
The  God  of  life  expiring  on  a  cross 
Surpassed  conception  of  Almighty  love; 
The  sun  grew  dim,  dark  shadows  quenched  his  beam, 
And  Night's  thick  mantle  fell  upon  the  earth ;  120 


38 

V 

An  earthquake  shook  the  globe ;  the  rocks  were  cleft ; 
The  temple's  yeil  was  rent  in  twain ;  the  dead 
Awoke,  arose,  and  left  their  darksome  graves. 

Laid  in  the  earth,  the  tomb  did  not  long  hold 
Him  whose  dominion  over  death  extends.  125 

Christ  broke  asunder  all  the  bonds  of  death ; 
He  triumphed  o'er  the  grave ;  he  lived  again  on  earth ; 
He  called  around  him  his  dejected  friends; 
He  blessed  them  and  rekindled  all  their  zeal, 
And  darting  upwards  on  the  wings  of  wind,  130 

He  sought  again  his  own  eternal  throne, 
And  left  them  gazing  on  the  passing  clouds. 

Commissioned  by  the  heavenly  will  of  him 
Who  bled  and  died  that  rebel  man  might  live, 
His  bold  disciples  traversed  sea  and  land,  135 

Preaching  the  truths  which  they  had  heard  of  him, 
And  publishing  his  overtures  of  peace. 


39 


No  dangers  could  intimidate  these  men ; 
They  braved  the  frowns,  the  pleasures  of  the  world : 
Love  for  their  God,  love  for  their  fellow-men  140 

Impelled  them  on,  and  thunder-clothed  their  tongues. 
Some  hardy  champions  of  the  cross  arrived 
At  Rome ;  proclaimed  aloud  the  Christian  faith, 
And  planted  there  an  early  church  of  Christ. 
This  little  band,  though  peaceable  and  mild,  145 

The  foes  of  strife,  and  like  their  master  meek, 
Were  not  permitted  to  remain  in  peace. 
Loud  roa'red  the  blasts  of  persecuting  zeal ; 
The  heathen  raised  his  unrelenting  sword ; 
The  Roman  tyrant  issued  his  decree,  150 

And  Christian  blood  in  torrents  flowed:  but  still 
In  Rome  religion  flourished  and  increased ; 
The  cause  of  Christ  defied  the  threat  of  power, 
The  arm  of  malice,  and  consuming  flames. 

The  Roman  empire  almost  grasps  the  world,  155 

And  o'er  that  world  the  tyrant  Nero  reigns. 


40 

He  overtops  the  pinnacle  of  vice  ; 

Rome  never  groaned  beneath  a  king  so  vile. 

Ah!  I  have  seen  him,  dark,  relentless  man, 

In  regal  robes,  in  pomp  of  pride  elate;  160 

I  marked  the  scowling  of  his  heavy  brow, 

His  eye  which  bade  defiance  to  his  God. 

The  church  of  Christ  beneath  his  reign  had  grown, 

And  added  to  her  numbers  men  of  power ; 

The  tyrant  saw  the  Christian  cause  increase,  165 

But  wilful  smothered  for  a  time  his  rage. 

At  length  prepared,  and  rising  in  his  might, 

He  hurled  his  dreadful  edicts  on  their  heads  : 

He  bade  the  sword  of  persecution  rage 

Throughout  the  world,  and  spare  no  Christian  dog,  170 

But  butcher  in  cold  blood  all  sex,  all  age,  and  rank, 

And  root  the  name  of  Christian  from  the  earth. 

Nero  himself  hurled  in  the  domes  of  Rome 

Some  brands  of  fire,  and  while  the  kindled  flames 

Spread  devastation  and  wild  ruin  round,  175 

Throughout  the  streets  he  bade  a  voice  proclaim 


41 

These  flames  were  lighted  by  the  hands  of  Christians, 

Surrounded  by  the  deepening  shades  of  night ; 

Behold,  O  Romans,  what  these  wretches  do! 

Then  raged  the  fury  often  thousand  fiends,  180 

And  hell's  dark  angels  clapped  their  wings  for  joy* 

The  sufferings  of  the  Christians  were  intense ; 

Yet  do  I  shudder  at  the  deeds  I  saw, 

And  turn  with  horror  from  that  dreadful  night. 

A  holy  bishop  had  from  Carthage  come,  185 

To  cheer  the  courage  of  his  friends  at  Rome  ; 
His  character,  his  goodness,  and  his  rank, 
Made  him  an  object  of  the  heathen  rag«. 
A  burst  of  voices  from  the  frantic  crowds 
Denounced  his  death.     Around  his  house  1 90 

Gathered  the  fierce  and  raving  multitude, 
Tore  from  his  bed  the  venerable  man, 
Dragged  him  exulting  through  the'  affrighted  streets, 
Dashed  him  against  the  earth  and  craggy  walls, 
And  threw  his  mangled  members  to  the  flames,  195 


42 

A  lovely  woman,  of  exalted  rank, 

Who  had  renounced  the  idol  gods  of  Rome, 

With  a  sweet  infant  clinging  to  her  breast, 

With  streaming  hair,  and  garments  rudely  torn, 

Was  dragged  by  ruffians  in  the  public  view,  200 

Was  brutally  insulted,  scourged,  and  gashed ; 

While  from  her  arms  her  little  babe  was  torn, 

And,  by  the  pressure  of  a  dungeon  villain, 

Strangled,  and  stamped  beneath  the  spurning  foot. 


O  pardon,  sir,  these  tears,  which  still  will  flow : 
I  am  a  soldier,  nor  disdain  to  weep ; 
That  holy  matron  who  was  thus  destroyed 
Was  my  fond  mother.     Yes,  I  saw  her  die; 
I  tried  to  save  her,  but  I  strove  in  vain. 

I,  a  late  convert  to  the  Christian  faith,  210 

Escaped  the  dangers  of  that  hateful  night, 
But  was  reserved  for  further  scenes  of  woe. 
My  father  still  inflexibly  remained 
Attached  to  heathen  principles  and  rites. 


43  . 

Whate'er  his  will  might  be,  he  had  no  power  215 

To  shield  his  wife  or  son  from  frantic  foes. 

Finding  no  safety  in  his  house  I  fled ; 

I  refuge  sought  in  unfrequented  ways, 

In  narrow  lanes  :  and  at  the  dead  of  night 

Stole  like  a  felon  from  my  lurking-place,  220 

In  search  of  friends,  who  roved  unhoused  like  me. 
* 

In  one  lone  ramble  through  the  silent  streets, 
A  passing  soldier  marked  my  hasty  steps ; 
He  knew  me,  and  commanded  me  to  stop. 
Alarmed,  I  strove  to  disappoint  his  search ;  225 

But  he  rushed  on,  discovered  where  I  was, 
And  with  his  sword  unsheathed  aimed  at  my  life. 
Forced  to  oppose  his  wild  impetuous  rage, 
I  drew  my  sword,  which  in  the  night  I  wore, 
And  in  the'  encounter  beat  the  brutal  wretch,  230 

Bleeding  and  howling  at  my  feet:  his  cry 
Brought  to  his  aid  the  nightly  guards  of  Rome. 
I  swiftly  fled,  and  baffled  their  pursuit. 


44 

The  dying  man  pronounced  my  name,  and  bade 

His  friends  remember  to  revenge  his  death.  235 

Thus  noted  and  proscribed,  and  like  a  beast 

Hunted  and  followed  by  the  hounds  of  blood, 

I  could  not  long  escape  their  eager  search. 

One  night,  within  a  large  and  vaulted  cave, 
I  and  two  hundred  Christians  more  had  met 
To  hear  explained  the  scriptures  of  our  God; 
To  bend  before  his  awful  throne  in  prayer ; 
To  share  the  joys  of  sympathetic  hearts. 
Some  happy  hours  had  flown  on  us  engaged 
In  acts  of  worship  and  in  counsel  there,  245 

When  we  were  startled  by  the  march  of  feet, 
By  clashing  arms,  and  voices  nqar  our  cave. 
We  had  not  time  to  fly,  before  the  mouth 
Of  our  rude  cavern  was  by  soldiers  closed, 
And  some  fierce  bands  rushed  in  with  spears  and  swords, 
And  then  commenced  the  dreadful  work  of  death.  251 

The  small  defence  which  we  could  make  was  vain, 


45 

And  vain  our  supplications  to  our  foes. 

The  voice  of  prayer  and  praise  was  now  exchanged 

For  shrieks  of  torture,  and  for  dying  groans;  255 

Late  where  the  broken  bread  and  wine  were  spread, 

The  emblems  of  a  bleeding  Saviour's  love, 

Streamed  the  warm  blood,  and  fell  the  mangled  limb. 

Sometime  had  slaughter  rioted  and  raged, 
When  I,  contending  in  the  face  of  death,  260 

In  hopes  that  darkness  might  afford  escape, 
Flew  to  the  places  where  the  lamps  were  hung, 
Dashed  them  to  earth,  extinguished  all  their  light. 
Shrouded  in  night,  and  in  a  cave  immured, 
The  Roman  soldiers  could  not  now  discern  265 

Their  friends  from  foes :  wild  uproar  now  arose ; 
Confusion  fell  upon  the  heathen  fiends ; 
They  poured  down  blows  upon  each  other's  heads, 
And  in  mistake  they  one  another  slew: 

A  night  more  terrible  I  never  saw.  270 

I,  purposing  escape,  in  silence  crept 

M 


46 

Along  the  walls,  until  I  reached  the  door : 

Then  calling  to  my  friends,  I  bade  them  seize 

The  present  time  of  flight,  and  follow  me  : 

And  springing  upwards,  o'er  the  flight  of  stairs,  275 

I  gained  the  street,  and  saw  the  moon  and  stars. 

Scarce  had  I  time  to  breathe  and  look  around, 

When  I  was  seized  by  the  patrolling  guards, 

Was  bound  with  heavy  chains,  and  then  was  thrown 

In  a  deep  dungeon,  cold,  damp  as  the  grave.  280 

Excluded  there  from  light  or  human  voice, 

I  lay  some  weeks,  and  would  have  welcomed  death  ; 

I  had  but  little  food,  and  that  was  coarse, 

And  such  as  hunger  only  would  receive. 

One  day  I  heard  my  prison  doors  unbarred,  285 

And  hailed  it  as  the  sound  preceding  death ; 
But  was  surprised  to  see  my  keeper  followed 
By  a  patrician  magistrate  of  Rome. 
He  came,  he  said,  to  rescue  me  from  woe, 
To  lead  me  forth  to  liberty  and  life,  290 


47 

If  I  would  meet  compliantly  his  terms, 

And  render  homage  to  the  Gods  of  Rome. 

Young  man,  said  he,  the  emperor  is  kind, 

And  sends  you  mercy  at  your  father's  prayer. 

If  you  renounce  the  Christian  name  and  faith,  295 

Honours  await  you,  you  shall  roll  in  wealth, 

In  all  the  splendours  of  patrician  rank ; 

But  if  you  still  to  Christians  vile  adhere, 

And  thus  forget  your  father,  birth,  and  king, 

Now  nearly  numbered  are  your  days  of  life  :  300 

Hear,  then,  and  weigh  the  doom,  the  foul  disgrace, 

Which  you  will  bring  upon  your  wretched  head, 

By  persevering  in  your  headlong  course : 

The  king  designs  to  give  a  splendid  feast 

To  his  victorious  soldiers  and  his  friends,  305 

And  to  conclude  the  pleasures  of  the  day 

By  exhibitions  on  the  stage  at  night. 

These  royal  exhibitions  shall  consist 

Of  men  contending  with  fierce  hungering  beasts, 

Of  gladiators  skilled  in  arts  of  war.  310 


48 

Hear,  then,  and  tremble  :  'tis  great  Nero's  will 

That  those  who  meet  the  lion  in  his  wrath 

Should  be  selected  from  the  Christian  herd, 

Those  enemies  of  Rome,  and  of  the  Gods: 

And  you,  Valerian,  if  you  still  refuse  315 

To  offer  incense  to  the  Gods  of  Rome, 

Shall,  in  the  view  of  clamorous  multitudes, 

War  with  the  lion,  or  the  savage  boar, 

And  with  your  dying  pangs  feast  the  dark  eye 

Of  riot  and  of  joy.     Think  then,  O  youth,  320 

Before  the  day  of  sovereign  grace  is  past ; 

Renounce  the  errors  of  a  wretched  sect, 

And  fill  with  joy  an  aged  father's  heart. 

I  heard  his  overtures,  and  thus  replied  : 

Bear  back  my  answer  to  the  king  you  serve,  325 

And  tell  it  to  the  priests  and  slaves  of  Rome, 
That  you  have  seen  Valerian  in  his  cell, 
Of  birth  as  noble  as  proud  Rome  can  boast, 
Chained  to  the  cold  ground,  like  the  vilest  wretch, 


49 

Buried  in  filth,  in  solitude,  and  night,  330 

Pale  and  worn  down,  denied  the  use  of  food  j 

But  that  you  found  him  rooted  in  his  faith, 

Resolved  to  brave  your  haughty  tyrant's  power, 

And  all  the  pangs  his  cruelty  can  form ; 

Resolved  to  die  and  feast  the  heathen  wolves,  335 

Before  he  would  renounce  the  truths  he  holds, 

Or  worship  any  being  but  his  God. 

Tell  also  to  the  sovereign  of  the  world, 

That,  though  I  die,  I  supplicate  his  favour 

For  those  poor  Christians  whom  I  leave  behind ;  340 

That  he  would  stay  the  persecuting  sword 

Which  riots  in  their  blood.     They  never  did  him  harm ; 

Peaceful  are  they,  and,  seeking  peace  of  men, 

They  follow  in  the  footsteps  of  their  Lord, 

And  pay  to  Csesar  what  to  him  is  due.  345 

All  that  they  claim  is  liberty  to  serve 

Their  God  and  Saviour,  as  they  shall  think  best. 

The  world  holds  not  a  nobler  race  of  men, 

• 
A  race  more  faithful  to  the  God  they  own, 

N 


50 

A  race  more  fervent  in  their  country's  cause.  350 

Tell  to  my  father  that  his  son  forgives 

His  coldness  and  neglect,  and  that  he  dies 

In  prayers  for  blessings  on  his  reverend  head. 

O  tell  him  that  this  heart  beats  high  with  love 

For  him  who  gave  me  birth,  and  longs  to  pour  355 

Its  hopes,  its  cares,  its  sorrows  in  his  breast. 

The  Roman  magistrate  withdrew  in  wrath. 
He  bade  me  speedily  prepare  for  death, 
To  sate  the  hunger  of  the  beast  of  prey. 
He  bade  my  keeper  give  me  better  food,  360 

To  nurse  my  strength  against  the  day  of  combat, 
That  I  might  grapple  bravely  with  my  foe. 
My  father  came,  in  pity  to  my  wish, 
To  bid  his  wretched  son  a  last  farewell. 

He  wept,  he  pressed  me  to  his  bursting  heart,  365 

Conjured  me  by  the  love  I  bore  to  him, 
By  the  dear  memory  of  her  who  died 
A  sainted  victim  to  the  cause  of  Christ, 


51 

To  seek  not  thus  a  vile  and  wretched  end, 

But  to  renounce  the  faith  I  had  embraced,  370 

And  live  again  in  happiness  and  peace. 

B\it  all  his  prayers  and  all  his  tears  were  vain ; 

My  resolution  nothing  could  subdue, 

Rather  to  meet  ten  thousand  deaths  than  blast 

The  truths  I  loved,  my  fervent  hopes  of  heaven.  375 

My  father  went  in  anguish  from  my  cell, 
And  I  remained  more  resolute  to  die. 
Next  day  my  prison  door,  on  sullen  hinge, 
Was  opened  by  a  hasty,  forceful  hand ; 

I  raised  my  eyes,  and  saw  two  Roman  guards  380 

Enter  my  cell ;  within  their  arms  they  bore 
The  body  of  a  man,  from  whose  pierced  side 
The  dark  blood  flowed ;  with  rage  they  dashed  him  down, 
And  to  the  cold  ground  chained  his  mangled  limbs, 
And  then  with  taunts  and  haughty  stride  withdrew.  385 

A  time  insensible  the  stranger  lay, 
His  pains  seemed  buried  in  the  sleep  of  death ; 


52 

At  length  a  groan  broke  from  him,  and  declared 

That  he  still  lived.     Around  his  cell  he  cast 

A  sad,  exploring  eye,  and  when  he  saw  290 

Me,  the  companion  in  his  house  of  woe, 

He  spoke  such  words  as  sorrow  would  employ 

Toward  one  united  in  a  common  fate. 

I,  answering  him,  in  sympathy  enquired 

By  what  occurrence  he  and  I  were  brought,  395 

Strangers  before,  to  meet  as  friends  in  grief? 

To  which  he  answered :  I,  O  Roman,  am 

In  faith  a  Christian,  and  for  this  I  bear 

The  wrongs  and  insults  of  a  heathen's  rage, 

For  this  I  now  am  thrust  in  dungeon  depths,  400 

And  doomed  to  meet  the  most  opprobrious  death. 

In  childhood,  led  by  some  advent'rous  men, 

I  came  to  Rome,  from  distant  eastern  climes, 

Whose  names,  perhaps,  have  never  reached  your  ear. 

Here  since  I  lived,  here  learned  the  truths  of  God,  405 

For  which  I'm  bound  in  chains,  and  doomed  to  die. 

Land  of  my  fathers,  scenes  of  infant  years  ! 


Ye  hills  and  plains,  ye  streams  and  tangled  woods, 
O'er  which  I  roved,  in  boyhood's  artless  days, 

0  shall  Coelestian  never  see  ye  more  !  410 
Deceiving  visions  of  the  night  away ! 

Hush  not  the  tumults  of  the  soul  to  rest, 
To  wake  again  to  keener  pangs  of  woe ! 

Ccelestian  ceased.     I  strove  to  soothe  his  cares ; 

1  told  him  mine ;  I  won  his  honest  heart,  415 
And  in  the  interchange  of  voice  and  thought, 

With  happier  speed  we  winged  the  hours  which  passed 

O'er  us  immured  in  solitude  and  night. 

Ye  sacred  pleasures  of  congenial  hearts  ! 

This  heart  can  feel,  but  cannot  paint  your  power :  420 

Cheerers  of  life  and  of  a  darkened  world, 

You  came  to  bless  my  solitary  cell ! 

You  here  have  met  me  on  this  unknown  shore ! 

At  length  the  dreadful  night  of  trial  came. 
Clad  in  light  armour,  I  by  force  was  dragged  425 


54 

From  my  loathed  dungeon,  and  compelled  to  meet 
The  hateful  shouts  of  eager  gazing  crowds. 
Behold  me  then  upon  a  public  stage, 
Mocked  and  insulted,  and  expecting  death. 

At  signal  given,  with  loud  and  horrid  bound,  430 

A  lion  leaps  before  my  view :  his  eyes 
Like  kindled  fires  glare  frightfully  on  me ; 
His  hairy  sides  he  lashes  with  his  tail ; 
And,  couching  down,  he  pours  his  chilling  cry 
Of  hunger  and  of  rage;  aroused  I  start  435 

From  my  sad  trance,  and  in  defence  I  rush 
Against  a  foe  so  terrible  and  fierce. 

Soon  as  he  feels  the  edge  of  my  keen  sword 
His  rage  redoubles,  and  his  hideous  roar 
Deafens  the  ear,  and  shakes  the  vaulted  walls ;  440 

He  waves  the  terrors  of  his  hoary  mane. 
Collecting  all  his  might,  at  me  he  leaps, 
And  with  extended  claws  threatens  to  tear 


55 

My  quivering  members  piecemeal  on  the  stage. 

I  start  aside  and  disappoint  his  rage,  445 

And,  aided  by  the  gracious  arm  of  Heaven, 

Ere  he  recovers  from  his  bound  mispent, 

I  plunge  my  weapon  in  his  panting  heart. 

The  mighty  savage  falls  and  rolls  in  blood, 

He  gasps  and  struggles  in  the  pangs  of  death.  450 

Loud  shouts  of  exultation  rend  the  air, 

A  thousand  voices  bid  the  conqueror  live. 

The  emperor  listens  to  the  general  wish : 
At  his  command  the  guards  conduct  me  back 
To  my  dark  cell,  there  to  remain  and  wait  455 

The  will  and  pleasure  of  my  vengeful  foes. 
I  met  again  Ccelestian,  my  kind  friend, 
Whose  life  till  now  his  enemies  had  spared: 
He  welcomed  me  as  risen  from  the  tomb, 
And  come  to  haunt  his  solitude  :  he  scarce  460 

Would  listen  to  my  tale,  or  grant  belief 
To  my  escape  from  danger  and  from  death. 


56 

Excuse  me,  friends,  if  I  should  draw  the  veil 
O'er  the  new  sufferings  of  my  prison-house. 
With  heavy  wing  the  long  and  tardy  days  465 

Passed  o'er  my  dungeon ;  still  I  cherished  hope : 
At  length  arose  the  dawn  of  better  days, 
And  freedom  came  to  bless  my  weary  eyes. 
My  father's  bribe  seduced  the  keeper's  heart, 
And  he  consented  to  unlock  the  doors,  470 

And  let  Ccelestian  and  myself  depart, 
While  slept  the  guards,  and  night  had  hushed  the  world. 

Escaped  from  prison,  I  and  my  new  friend 
Resolved  to  fly  for  ever  from  those  shores 
Where  liberty  of  conscience  was  denied,  475 

Where  God  was  worshipped  midst  the  fears  of  death. 
Disguised,  by  night  to  Ostia's  port  we  came, 
And  meeting  there  with  several  Christian  friends, 
Who  there  had  gathered  with  the  same  design, 
A  vessel  we  obtained,  in  which  we  all  480 

Embarked,  and  left  the  walls  of  haughty  Rome, 


57 

Our  fields,  our  country,  and  our  friends  behind, 

And  guided  by  Coelestian  on  our  way, 

We  turned  our  sails  toward  these  far-eastern  climes, 

The  most  remote  from  Roman  rage  and  power.  485 

Through  different  countries,  many  woes  we  passed, 
In  quest  of  these  auspicious  scenes  of  rest : 
Through  Scylla  and  Charybdis  safe  we  came, 
Through  the  rough  Hellespont  we  ploughed  our  way, 
O'er  the  dark  Euxine  then  with  prosperous  winds,  490 

With  hearts  made  lighter  with  success,  we  flew. 
At  length  we  reached  the  Caspian  ocean's  mouth, 
And  hailed  with  joy  its  ever-rolling  wave. 
But  ah!  this  transport  was  too  soon  o'ercast; 
A  storm  arose,  the  billows  beat  the  skies,  495 

The  vessel  reeled  beneath  the  sweeping  blast, 
The  helm  refused  the  guidance  of  the  hand, 
The  sails  were  split  in  pieces,  and  we  drove, 
Left  to  the  fury  of  the  winds  and  waves. 


58 

Long  we  sustained  this  elemental  war,  500 

Till  on  a  rock  the  unrelenting  winds 
The  gallant  vessel  dashed:  ah!  then  arose 
Loud  shrieks  which  mingled  with  the  thundering  storm ; 
The  shivered  timbers  floated  on  the  sea, 
And  o'er  the  sinking  hulk  the  waters  rolled.  505 

My  noble  friends  and  all  the  crew  were  lost ; 
They  perished  struggling  with  the  flood;  me,  me 
Alone  the  raging  billows  safely  bore, 
And  cast  me  on  these  friendly  shores  of  peace. 
You  found  me,  father,  you  have  brought  me  here,  510 

And,  thanks  to  you  and  to  this  generous  maid, 
I  live.     I  feel  again  the  glow  of  health; 
I  live  to  bend  in  gratitude  and  praise 
To  that  high  Power  who  guides  the  course  of  worlds, 
And  who  in  love  the  sparrow's  life  sustains.  515 


END   OF   BOOK   II. 


VALERIAN. 

A   NARRATIVE   POEM. 


BOOK  III. 


BOOK  III. 

^••^••••••MHi^MM^^^V 

- 

V  ALERIAN  ended :  while  his  listening  friends 

Hung  on  his  words  with  interested  hearts. 

Excited  by  his  long  adventurous  tale, 

Still  they  with  fond  solicitude  enquired 

Concerning  Rome,  the  dangers  he  escaped,  5 

By  land,  by  sea ;  from  beast  and  cruel  man. 

All  which,  with  grateful  heart  and  willing  tongue, 

The  Roman  answered  with  minutest  care; 

And,  while  he  spoke,  a  tender  speaking  eye, 

An  eye  of  soft  seraphic  blue,  was  fixed  10 

With  admiration  on  his  pensive  face. 


62 

Valerian  met  those  brilliant  orbs  of  love  : 
His  soul  within  him  felt  their  potent  sway, 
And  gratitude  increased  the  holy  flame. 

Serenely  o'er  their  heads  the  summer  days  15 

In  wild  luxuriance  flew  :  but  still  the  youth 
Restrained  the  fervent  vow  he  longed  to  breathe 
In  the  soft  ear  of  his  enchanting  maid. 
He  marked  her  manners  and  her  generous  heart, 
Her  mind  of  active  and  discerning  power,  20 

And  heard  delighted  her  deep-warbling  harp ; 
Her  simple  vestments  modestly  displayed 
A  matchless  form  of  grace,  on  which  his  eye 
With  virtuous  and  admiring  pleasure  dwelt. 

Meantime  Alcestes  to  the  aged  king  25 

His  guest  Valerian  led.     The  warlike  king 
Received  him  with  a  smile  and  courteous  mien ; 
He  bade  him  welcome  to  his  distant  shores, 
And  promised  him  protection  and  repose. 


63 

Soon  tot  he  chiefs  and  to  the  people  known,  30 

Valerian  gained  their  confidence  and  love. 
They  praised  the  stranger  and  his  manners  mild ; 
They  heard  his  tale,  and  listened  to  those  truths 
Which  Christ  and  his  apostles  came  to  teach. 
Emboldened  by  his  welcome  to  those  shores,  35 

And  glowing  with  a  zeal  to  spread  abroad 
The  love  and  glory  of  his  dying  Lord, 
And  to  diffuse  among  a  savage  race 
The  gospel's  light,  he  with  discretion  broke 
His  great  design  ;  gained  o'er  the  kingly  mind,  40 

Won  to  his  cause  the  venerable  seer, 
Azora's  gentle  heart,  and  him  who  watched 
The  sacred  lamp  within  the  temple's  walls. 

At  length  prepared,  impressed  with  power  divine, 
Montalvia's  race  received  the  faith  of  Christ,  45 

Bowed  to  that  God  whose  thunder  shakes  the  skies, 
Who  called  all  being  from  the  womb  of  night, 
Who  breathed  in  man  the  breath  and  soul  of  life, 


64 

Who  rolls  a  thousand  wheels,  who  life  sustains, 

By  the  sole  power  of  his  Almighty  arm,  50 

And  all  things  governs  by  his  sovereign  will. 

Then,  by  the  radiance  of  the  light  of  heaven, 

Infernal  darkness  from  the  land  was  driven ; 

The  demon-yell  was  hushed  by  Mercy's  voice  ; 

And  idol-temples  by  the  arm  divine  55 

Were  beaten  to  the  ground ;  the  hovering  winds 

Which  Superstition  spread,  to  catch  the  beam 

Emitted  from  the  skies,  were  wide  dispersed 

By  Heaven's  all-conquering  storm ;  and  from  the  shrine 

Crushed  by  the  thunder's  vindicating  strength,  60 

The  trembling  priests  and  impious  prophets  fled. 

No  more  the  altars  smoked  with  human  blood, 

Butchered  to  quench  a  deathful  idol's  rage: 

But  prayer  and  heartfelt  praise  breathed  from  the  lips, 

To  Him  the  source  and  spring  of  life  and  joy,  65 

To  Him  who  died  that  rebel  man  might  live, 

Ascended  to  the  skies,  and  reached  his  ear. 


65 

The  Roman  saw  with  joy  the  work  of  God 
Progress  and  flourish  in  this  heathen  land. 
To  Him  he  bent  in  fervent  grateful  prayer,  70 

Who  sees  and  governs  all  concerns  of  men, 
Who  him  had  led,  o'er  seas  and  through  distress, 
To  this  asylum  from  a  tyrant's  rage. 

But  some  there  were  whose  dark  malignant  minds 
Beheld  with  rage  their  idols  hurled  to  earth,  75 

And  vented  curses  on  the  Christian's  head, 
Who  had  o'erthrown  their  superstitious  faith. 
'Mongst  these  was  Palladon,  a  wileful  priest, 
Hoary  in  years  and  versed  in  deeds  of  blood ; 
Beneath  the  sacred  mantle  he  concealed  80 

A  cruel,  plotting,  ever-restless  soul, 

Which  laughed  at  woe,  which  mocked  the  tear  that  flowed. 
His  eye  had  marked  Valerian  as  his  prey, 
It  scowled  with  vengeance  on  his  noble  form, 
And  would  have  smote  him  with  its  horrid  gaze.  85 


66 

Collecting  round  him,  in  a  private  dome, 
His  friends  long  tried  in  villainy  and  wiles, 
He  thus  addressed  them  with  his  winning  voice : — 
Happy  am  I  to  find,  my  virtuous  friends, 
That  some  with  me,  still  faithful  to  their  Gods,  90 

Will  mourn  the  honours  of  their  country  lost. 
Who  could  believe  that  this  strange  wandering  man, 
Full  of  vain  babblings,  could  o'erthrow  so  soon 
The  long  established  worship  of  our  land ! 
Our  king,  grown  old,  enfeebled  in  his  mind,  95 

Implicitly  receives  his  baby  tales ; 
Our  bald-pate  priest,  who  has  become  a  child, 
Has  also  listened  to  this  man  of  Rome ; 
And  thousands  following  these  deluded  men, 
Their  fathers'  and  their  country's  gods  have  left.  100 

No  more  we  hear  the  voice  of  praise  ascending 
To  great  Oasis ;  and  no  more  we  see 
On  his  high  altar  the  fat  victim  bleed. 
The  muttering  skies  proclaim  the  damning  deeds : 
And  last  night  spoke  a  demon  of  the  storm,  105 


And  said,  Avenge,  O  priest,  thy  prostrate  Gods. 

O  mourn,  my  friends,  at  those  affrighting  woes, 

Which  hang,  like  dark  clouds,  o'er  this  guilty  land ! 

Let  us,  still  true  to  our  forefathers'  faith, 

Seek  that  relief  which  may  from  union  flow.  1 10 

Say,  is  there  not  some  way,  some  righteous  path, 

Which  being  pursued  by  us  may  yet  avert 

The  merited  impending  blow  of  Heaven  ? 

There  is,  cried  one  :  the  Christian  youth  should  die. 

There  spoke,  said  Palladon,  the  voice  of  truth :  115 

The  Gods  themselves  would  justify  the  deed, 
And  would  reward  the  bold  and  faithful  arm, 
Who  crushed  the  foe  of  Heaven.     Let  us  then,  friends, 
Now  take  that  counsel  which  will  most  secure 
The  execution  of  a  deed  so  just:  120 

And  ye  great  Powers  who  rule  the  fates  of  men, 
Be  present  with  us,  give  our  arms  with  strength 
To  vindicate  successfully  your  cause. 


68 

He  said :  loud  acclamations  shook  the  dome, 
Many  contended  who  should  foremost  share  125 

The  danger  of  the  deed.     Palladon's  voice 
Hushed  the  big  tumult,  and  besought  his  friends, 
To  wait  in  silence  the  most  favoured  time. — 
Let  us  all  share  the  danger  of  the  deed; 
Let  us  all  bear  a  weapon  in  our  hands,  130 

True  to  our  Gods  and  to  our  country's  rights ; 
And  let  that  steel  which  chance  shall  most  befriend 
Drink  the  heart's  blood  of  Heaven's  offending  foe. — 
He  said :  they  all  assented  to  his  words, 
They  parted,  and  their  homes  in  silence  sought.  135 

* 

Gondalbo's  trumpet  at  the  dawn  of  day 
Had  summoned  to  the  chace  his  sportful  friends : 
With  these  came  forth  a  troop  of  martial  dames, 
Led  by  Rolinda,  first  of  all  in  charms. 

Valerian,  curious  to  explore  the  wood,  140 

Where  the  magician  kept  his  mystic  school, 
Accoutred  in  the  armour  of  the  land, 


69 

Mounted  a  steed,  and  followed  in  the  train. 

His  stately  form,  the  grace  with  which  he  moved, 

And  checked  the  fury  of  his  headlong  horse,  145 

Struck  his  beholders  with  surprise :  but  most 

Rolinda's  eye  him  followed  o'er  the  plains, 

And  most  her  tongue  was  lavish  in  his  praise. 

His  courser  bounded  to  the  winding  horn, 

And  to  the  clamours  of  the  noisy  hounds,  150 

That  echoed  from  the  hills  ;  he  proudly  pranced, 

He  snuffed  the  gale,  and  waved  his  floating  mane. 

When  they  had  reached  the  borders  of  the  wood, 

Valerian  saw  with  wonder  its  thick  shades, 

The  towering  height  of  its  deep-rooted  oaks,  155 

And  felt  the  chill  of  their  o'ershadowing  gloom. 

Far  in  the  woods  the  hunters  had  not  plunged, 
Before  the  hounds  from  his  rude  covert  roused 
A  huge  and  furious  boar:  his  glaring  eyes 
Shone  like  two  stars  amidst  the  depths  of  night;  160 

Like  to  the  murmur  of  seditious  winds, 

s 


70 

His  breath  was  heard  from  far ;  he  champed  the  foam 

Which  dropped  down  roping  from  his  crooked  tusks. 

He  heard  the  tumult  of  the  coming  war, 

And  high  upridging  his  hard  bristly  back,  165 

Prepared  to  meet  the  onset  of  his  foes. 

The  dogs  that  first  advanced  were  gashed  and  torn, 
Their  fellows  fled,  the  stoutest  hunter  paused. 
Swift  as  the  winds  Rolinda  onward  flies, 

Nor  heeds  the  counsel  of  her  female  train:  170 

At  the  fierce  beast  she  boldly  hurls  her  spear ; 
True  to  her  aim,  it  strikes  him  in  the  side, 
The  blood  pours  down  in  torrents  from  the  wound. 
The  monster  rages  with  excess  of  pain, 

And  turns  his  wrath  on  her  who  gave  the  blow,  175 

Loud  roaring  like  the  storm.     Rolinda's  steed 
Starts  back  and  trembles,  while  the  ponderous  boar 
Against  him  rushes,  throws  him  to  the  earth, 
And  with  him  the  fair  burden  which  he  held. 
Helpless  Rolinda  lies,  expecting  death  :  180 


71 

Valerian  sees,  he  hastens  to  her  aid, 

He  throws  himself  like  lightning  from  his  horse, 

With  his  long  spear  he  rushes  on  the  boar, 

And  buries  it  in  his  extended  jaws : 

He  falls,  and  shakes  beneath  his  weight  the  ground.          185 

Valerian  raises  the  affrighted  maid, 

And  gives  her  back  in  safety  to  her  friends. 

The  danger  past,  again  the  trumpet  sounds 
The  signal  for  the  chase,  and  on  they  rush, 
While  horn,  and  clam'rous  hound,  and  joyous  shouts,        190 
With  peal  on  peal  through  the  deep  thickets  break, 
And  rouse  up  silence  from  her  lonely  haunts. 

As  thus  they  wound  the  tangles  of  the  wood, 
And  beat  each  thicket,  and  explored  each  hill, 
They  heard  the  loud  blast  of  a  bugle  horn,  195 

And  far  within  the  forest  shade  beheld 
A  youthful  warrior  leaning  on  his  spear, 
As  they  approached  they  marked  his  noble  form, 


72 

His  dark  plume  waving  to  the  breath  of  air, 

His  glittering  armour,  and  his  gallant  mien,  200 

And  soon  Rolinda  in  the  youth  beheld 

Brave  Torismond,  the  Arimaspian  prince, 

And  trembled  for  the  fate  of  him  she  loved. 

The  hunter,  when  he  saw  the  train  approach, 
Started  surprised,  and  sternly  grasped  his  spear :  205 

And  soon  as  he  and  the  Montalvian  prince 
Each  other  knew,  rage  sparkled  in  their  eyes, 
And  indignation  crimsoned  o'er  their  cheeks. 
Aloud  Gondalbo  called  upon  his  foe, 

Upbraided  him  with  taunts,  and  bade  his  troop  210 

Seize  on  the  wretch,  and  bind  him  hand  and  foot, 
And  bear  him  to  the  presence  of  the  king. 

The  prince,  indignant,  at  this  insult  laughed ; 
Firm  in  his  place  he  stood,  and  shook  his  spear, 
And  towering  in  his  pride  of  strength  thus  spoke  : —          215 
Ha !  think'st  thou,  prince,  thou  mighty  man  of  war, 


73 

Thou  bold  upbraider  of  a  single  man, 

That  thou  hast  caught  the  lion  in  thy  toils, 

The  lion  who  has  thinned  thy  crowded  ranks  ? 

And  that  thou'lt  seize  him,  and  him  bound  expose  220 

To  the  rude  gaze  of  thy  detested  slaves  ? 

I  scorn  thy  threats :  here  would  I  stand,  alone, 

And  meet  the  brunt  of  your  united  force, 

But  that  I  have  within  the  sound  of  horn 

A  band  of  soldiers,  who  have  hither  come  225 

With  me  to  share  the  pleasures  of  the  chase. 

Then  tremble,  ruffian,  measure  back  thy  steps, 

While  now  I  bid  my  absent  friends  approach. 

He  said,  and  loudly  blew  his  bugle  horn, 
Which  far  extended  its  indignant  blast.  230 

The  warning  sound  his  friends  obedient  heard, 
And  swiftly  at  his  call  through  thickets  dashed, 
And  gathered  round  their  loved  and  warlike  chief. 
Then  had  the  storm  of  bloody  battle  raged, 


74 

But  that  young  Torismond  his  soldiers  checked,  235 

And  thus  accosted  the  Montalvian  prince: 

Ho!  man  of  words,  now  execute  thy  threat; 
Now  bind  me  fast,  and  bear  me  to  your  king : 
Sooner  by  far  you  might  arrest  the  winds, 
And  yoke  the  lightnings  to  your  battle-car.  240 

But  why  for  us  should  these  bold  warriors  bleed? 
Why  in  a  private  quarrel  should  we  waste 
The  lives  of  friends  so  faithful  in  our  cause  ? 
Come  on  then,  chief,  alone,  and  leave  thy  horse, 
And  meet  the  prowess  of  this  single  arm;  245 

And  let  our  bands  look  on  and  mark  our  feats, 
And  say  who  most  excels  in  deeds  of  arms. 

He  said :  Gondalbo  bounded  from  his  horse ; 

• 

He  bade  his  soldiers  pause,  nor  raise  a  hand 

Or  weapon  in  the  fight.     Silence  ensued;  250 

The  combatants  drew  near ;  aside  they  threw 

Their  spears ;  they  seized  their  swords,  together  rushed, 


75 

•> 

And  shook  the  earth  beneath  their  mighty  strides : 

Swift  fell  the  blows  of  their  loud  thundering  steel,. 

And  far  and  wide  their  din  of  battle  spread.  255 

At  times  Gondalbo  seemed  to  press  his  foe 

With  conquering  force;  at  times  he  seemed  to  yield 

Beneath  his  rival's  power ;  and  both  at  times 

Seemed  weary  of  the  fight  and  dreadful  toil. 

Long  they  contended,  and  the  turf  beneath  260 

With  foot  they  hardened,  and  with  blood  they  dyed ; 
Yet  still  in  doubtful  scales  the  vict'ry  hung. 
At  length  Gondalbo,  with  a  wary  eye, 
Believed  he  saw  his  rival's  power  decline, 
And  thought  one  mighty  effort  would  secure  265 

To  him  the  triumph  of  the  bloody  strife. 
Rouzing  his  strength,  and  raising  high  his  sword, 
He  struck  the  head  of  his  relentless  foe ; 
While  at  the  moment  he  himself  received, 
Deep  in  the  side,  the  plunge  of  his  keen  sword:  270 

Both  fell,  and  rolled  in  anguish  on  the  ground. 


76 

Loud  shrieked  Rolinda,  and  within  the  arms 
Of  her  attendants  sunk :  her  lover's  name 
Burst  from  her  lips,  and  told  the  tender  flame 
She  nursed  with  secret  sorrow  in  her  heart.  275 

When  the  troops  saw  their  princely  leaders  fall, 
They  to  their  aid  with  eagerness  rushed  on: 
Each  man  believed  his  fallen  chief  was  dead, 
And  breathed  revenge  upon  his  hated  foes. 
Dark  was  the  battle  which  with  fury  raged  280 

Between  these  adverse  bands :  they  were  two  clouds 
Charged  with  dread  thunder  that  together  met ; 
They  were  two  torrents  meeting  on  a  hill, 
And  upward  dashing  in  the  air  their  spray. 

Valerian's  noble  soul  was  sick  of  wars;  285 

He  mourned  for  men  contending  like  the  beasts, 
With  cruel  joy,  and  rioting  in  blood : 
But  now  in  self  defence  he  drew  his  sword, 
And  with  an  arm  unrivalled  in  its  strength, 
Beat  from  him  the  assaults  and  rage  of  war.  290 


77 

The  fight  was  won  by  bold  Montalvia's  sons ; 
Through  the  wild  shades  the  Arimaspians  fled, 
And  left  their  leader  bleeding  on  the  earth. 
Valerian  checked  his  friends  in  the  pursuit, 
And  bade  them  both  the  fallen  princes  raise,  295 

And  to  the  city  gently  bear  them  back. 
Rolinda  followed  in  the  mournful  train, 
With  eye  dejected  and  with  altered  air ; 
Her  long  dishevelled  hair  waved  in  the  wind, 
And  frequent  sighs  broke  from  her  aching  heart.  300 

Valerian,  with  a  few  who  yet  remained, 
Through  the  wide  forest  still  explored  his  way, 
Till  the  high  turrets  of  a  ruined  fane 
Rose  to  his  view,  embosomed  in  the  woods  : 
Along  its  side  a  torrent  dashed  its  foam,  305 

And  a  bleak  hill  o'erlooked  its  massy  walls. 
Here  the  magician  lived,  and,  nursed  in  wiles, 
Deluded  men  by  tales  of  future  life. 
Arrived,  they  sought  admission  at  the  door, 


78 

And  heard  their  blows  roll  through  the  mouldering  hall.  310 

A  hand  within  drew  back  the  iron  bars, 

And  a  deep  voice  cried,  Mortals,  follow  me  ^ 

O  ye  who  come  with  just  desire  to  learn 

The  secrets  of  my  dark  mysterious  art, 

To  hear  me  tell  the  hidden  scenes  of  time,  315 

Come  follow  me,  and  I  will  lead  you  where 

The  world  shut  out  shall  not  obtrude,  or  break 

The  spell  of  magic  which  I  breathe  around. 

The  hearts  of  some  were  fear-struck  by  his  words, 
But  still  Valerian  led  the  way  to  know  320 

How  would  this  scene  of  dark  deception  end. 
They  trod  with  caution  up  a  flight  of  stairs, 
And  moved  along  a  floor  with  echoing  steps, 
Which  winding  led  them  to  an  iron  door  : 
Here  the  magician  paused,  and  with  a  key  325 

Unlocked  the  door,  which  turned  on  sullen  hinge, 
And  showed  the  hall  of  magical  deceit. 
He  bade  them  enter,  nor  a  whisper  breathe. 


79 

He  then  with  slow  and  measured  step  withdrew ; 
And  suddenly  appeared,  waving  a  rod,  330 

And  clothed  in  vestments  of  the  deepest  black. 
Valerian  marked  his  venerable  form, 
His  eye  of  piercing  and  bewildering  glance, 
His  beard  and  hair,  white  with  the  snows  of  age, 
The  hoarse  and  hollow  cadence  of  his  voice.  335 

The  windows  of  this  circling  hall  were  closed, 
And  two  dim  lights,  suspended  from  the  walls, 
Threw  o'er  the  darkness  a  deceitful  ray ; 
Silence  prevailed,  and  superstitious  dread 
Pressed  with  cold  hand  the  unenlightened  heart.  340 

And  now  the  wizard  spoke :  Tread  not,  my  friends, 
Beyond  that  line  of  black  which  marks  the  floor ; 
And,  for  the  world's  vast  treasures,  O  speak  not 
When  my  kind  spirit  answers  to  my  call. 
Now  fearless  speak,  O  mortal,  and  declare  345 

What  thou  would'st  know  of  me.     My  art  extends 
Far  in  the  depths  of  dark  unmeasured  time. 


80 

A  voice  then  spoke  :  Mysterious  being,  tell 
What  means  this  vision,  or  this  warning  dream. 
Some  years  ago  my  warlike  father  fell,  350 

Struck  by  assassin  hands,  within  these  shades  : 
'Twas  three  nights  since,  at  wizard-hour  of  one, 
When  the  pale  moon-beam  over  nature  hung, 
And  the  red  planet  trembled  in  the  sky, 

Methought  I  saw  my  father  in  my  room,  355 

Bending  on  me  a  stern  enquiring  eye ; 
He  thrice  traversed  with  martial  step  the  floor, 
Which  doleful  echoed  as  he  moved  along ; 
Inverted  in  his  hand  he  held  his  spear, 

And  his  tall  plumes  waved  awful  o'er  his  brows.  360 

Slowly  approaching  my  bed-side  he  placed 
His  hand  upon  his  bleeding  breast,  and  said, 
My  son,  avenge  your  father's  wrongs  ;  I  fell 
By  villain-wiles  within  the  forest  shades. 
He  spoke  no  more,  but  vanished  from  my  sight,  365 

Just  as  I  broke  the  frightful  dream,  and  rose 
To  clasp  him  in  my  arms. 


81 

Tell  thou  to  me 

What  means  this  dream,  this  vision  of  the  night. 

• 

Then  ceased  the  voice.     The  stern  magician  seemed    3 TO 
As  if  deep-struck  by  agonies  of  guilt : 
Nature  was  acting  in  the  place  of  art. 
His  features  were  distorted  and  convulsed, 
His  dark  eye-balls  seemed  bursting  from  his  head, 
And  frenzy  seemed  to  agitate  his  frame.  375 

At  length,  collecting  all  his  firmness,  he 
Prepared  to  act  his  diabolic  part. 
He  drew  a  phial  from  his  robe,  and  poured 
A  liquid  which  it  held  upon  the  floor. 

A  flame  arose  with  undulating  spires,  380 

And  with  a  blue  light  overspread  the  room ; 
A  cloud  of  smoke  proceeded  from  the  flame, 
And  rising  to  the  ceiling,  there  assumed 
A  form  which  bore  resemblance  to  a  man. 
At  length  a  voice  of  deep  and  hollow  tone  385 

Burst  on  the  ear  from  that  collected  cloud, 


82 

And  answered  thus  to  the  inquiring  man : — 

Why  hast  thou,  mortal,  called  me  from  my  place  ? 

Why  didst  thou  say,  Perturbed  spirit,  come  ? 

Yet,  powerful  man,  obedient  to  thy  voice,  390 

I  here  am  wafted  on  the  clouds  of  woe : 

Then  hear  me  speak,  and  bid  my  spirit  rest. 

The  dream  spoke  truth :  within  this  forest  fell 

Thy  father,  youth  ;  a  dagger  pierced  his  heart ; 

Yet  walks  the  earth,  and  breathes  the  air  of  life,  395 

The  man  who  slew  him  at  the  dead  of  night ; 

Yet  shall  the  son  avenge  his  father's  wrongs. — 

Silence  ensued ;  the  mystic  flame  expired ; 
The  aged  wizard  toward  the  window  sprang, 
And  let  the  day-light  enter  through  the  hall :  400 

Big  drops  hung  coldly  on  his  pallid  face, 
And  he  looked  wildly  as  if  woke  from  death. 
In  fear  and  wonder  the  Montalvians  stood, 
And  more  than  iron  fetters  bound  their  tongues. 
Valerian,  bending  a  stern  piercing  eye  405 


83 

On  the  magician,  thus  the  silence  broke  : — 

Old  man,  I've  marked  attentively  thine  art, 

And  for  thy  peace,  and  for  the  peace  of  men, 

I  warn  thee,  follow  thy  deceits  no  more. 

Well  hast  thou  studied  and  practised  thy  wiles,  410 

But  art  in  thee  could  not  conceal  thy  guilt : 

Say,  know'st  thou  not  more  of  the  man  who  fell, 

Stabbed  by  assassin,  than  thou  gav'st  a  tongue  ? 

I  pity  thee ;  but  mark  me,  magic-man, 

Renounce  thy  'snaring  wiles,  or  fear  my  power.  415 

A  chemic  potion,  which  thy  phial  held, 

Produced  the  flame  and  smoke  which  filled  the  room ; 

Thou  art  possessed  of  ventriloquial  powers, 

Which  made  thy  voice  seem  bursting  from  the  cloud. 

Awed  and  o'erpowered  by  these  imposing  arts,  420 

Men  are  deluded  by  thy  cunning  tales, 

And  honour  thee  as  something  more  than  man. — 

He  ceased :  he  hastily  withdrew,  and  left 
The  man  of  magic,  trembling  at  his  words. 


84 

Through  the  deep  woods  he  measured  back  his  steps,       425 
And  having  reached  again  the  open  plains, 
Dismissed  in  courteous  terms  his  friendly  guides, 
And  then  pursued  his  solitary  way. 

Night  fell  around  him  as  he  bent  his  course, 
Seeking  the  cottage  of  his  gentle  friend.  430 

No  moon  arose  to  light  him  in  his  path; 
The  stars  were  hid  by  wrathful  flying  clouds ; 
Shrill  blasts  swept  o'er  him,  and  big  drops  of  rain 
Beat  loudly  on  the  earth ;  the  lightning's  flash 
Disclosed  the  terror  of  the  gathering  storm,  435 

And  muttering  thunders  shook  the  vault  of  heaven. 

Valerian,  still  a  stranger  in  the  land, 
Deprived  of  light,  and  parted  from  his  friends, 
With  speed  urged  onward  his  affrighted  steed, 
Uncertain  of  the  road.     He  had  some  hours  440 

Thus  held  his  devious  course,  when,  by  the  glare 
Emitted  from  the  clouds,  his  startled  eye 


85 

Caught  a  huge  figure  moving  at  his  side. 

Scarce  had  his  voice  denoted  his  surprise, 

When  a  strong  hand  impelled  him  from  his  horse.  445 

With  sudden  bound  he  broke  the  vigorous  grasp, 

Unsheathed  his  sword,  and,  with  a  fearless  heart, 

On  his  assailant  rushed ;  he  struck  the  steel 

Which  his  mysterious  foe  plunged  at  his  heart. 

Then  in  the  dark  a  deadly  battle  raged;  450 

Blow  answered  blow,  and  from  the  neighbouring  hills 

Their  noise  of  battle  rung.     Not  long  they  fought, 

Before  shrill  whistles  sounded  through  the  gloom, 

Approaching  steps  were  heard  to  beat  the  earth, 

And  hosts  of  foes  came  to  the  aid  of  him  455 

Who  felt  the  thunder  of  Valerian's  arm. 

A  voice  then  spoke :  Ho,  comrades,  seize  this  man ! 

And  harm  him  not,  but  bear  him  to  my  cave. 

Resistance  proved  in  vain ;  by  numbers  pressed, 
Valerian  now  was  seized,  his  arms  were  bound,  460 

And  he  was  dragged  to  Artaban's  rude  cave. 

y 


86 

Awhile  he  lay  in  darkness,  and  in  doubt 

What  fate  impended  o'er  his  weary  head : 

On  his  suspense  the  light  of  torches  beamed, 

And  in  the  cavern  throngs  of  robbers  came,  465 

Clad  in  dark  armour,  and  begrimed  with  dust. 

Above  the  rest  Artaban  towered  in  bulk, 

In  form  more  beautiful,  in  brighter  arms ; 

The  helmet  which  he  wore,  with  streaming  hair, 

Concealed  a  face  of  strong,  determined  lines.  470 

Breaking  the  awful  stillness  of  the  night, 
In  voice  commanding  thus  he  spoke :  Brave  men, 
Unbind  the  captive's  hands.     Say,  gallant  foe, 
Dost  thou  know  Artaban,  who  roams  these  wilds  ? 
Hast  thou  not  heard  of  him  ?     If  thou  hast  not,  475 

Thou  art  a  stranger  here.     I,  I  am  he  ; 
I  crush  the  head  of  overtopping  pride, 
And  take  from  wealth  its  overflowing  stores. 
A  robber  I  am  called ;  the  mother  clasps 
Her  babe  more  closely  to  her  anxious  breast  480 


87 

At  mention  of  my  name :  her  or  her  babe, 

Or  sorrow's  worn-down  man  I  never  harmed : 

I  know  of  men  who  roll  in  regal  power, 

Who  merit  more  the  robber's  name  than  I. 

Say,  stranger,  who  art  thou?     Tell  without  fear;  485 

Since  I  was  born  I  never  coped  with  man 

Who  wielded  with  a  braver  force  his  sword. 

Fearless,  Valerian  answered  his  desire, 
Told  who  he  was,  his  hasty  flight  from  Rome, 
And  his  arrival  on  those  distant  shores.  490 

Which  when  he  heard,  the  robber  seized  his  hand, 
And  in  impetuous  accents  thus  replied : — 

Art  thou  a  Roman  ?  See  a  Roman  here  ! 
Behold  my  face  uncovered  to  thy  gaze, 

And  mark  the  eagle-feature  which  it  wears.  495 

I  also  fied  from  Rome,  ungrateful  Rome : 
This  bosom,  rough  with  honourable  scars, 
Can  tell  how  faithful  I  have  been  to  her, 


88 

But  gratitude  made  no  return  to  me. 

I  left,  indignant,  her  detested  shores,  500 

And  here  have  lived  on  plunder  and  on  war. 

With  my  whole  heart  I  honour  thee,  brave  man ; 

Be  henceforth  free  as  air;  Artaban's  band 

Shall  never  do  thee  harm ;  I  am  thy  friend, 

And  in  thy  time  of  danger  call  on  me.  505 

I  now  will  guide  thee  safely  to  thy  home, 

Through  all  the  windings  of  these  darksome  haunts. 

He  said ;  and  answering  to  his  words,  drew  forth 
Valerian  from  his  cave,  and  over  hill, 

And  over  bosky  dell,  through  winds  and  rains,  510 

And  through  the  starless  night,  him  faithful  led, 
And  left  in  safety  at  Alcestes'  cot. 

\ 
This  good  performed,  these  strange  adventures  past, 

Valerian  with  his  venerable  friend 

Dwelt  for  a  time  securely  in  repose :  515 

The  pomp  of  Rome,  her  halls  and  ivory  domes, 


89 

Gave  not  that  peace,  which  blessed  the  cot 

That  humbly  rose  upon  the  Caspian  shore. 

Nor  was  the  youth  forgetful  of  his  love ; 

His  heart's  fond  treasure  was  Azora  still :  520 

A  mind  so  kind  and  good,  a  form  so  fair, 

Dwelt  in  his  thoughts,  and  soothed  his  nightly  dream. 

She  was  his  pupil,  and,  with  tenderest  care, 

* 
He  taught  "  his  lovely  scholar  all  he  knew ;" 

Explained  to  her  the  Scriptures  of  his  God,  525 

And  all  the  wonders  of  the  Roman  world. 

From  his  instructions  she  in  knowledge  grew, 

Her  soul  expanded  with  the  love  of  truth, 

Her  eye  was  lighted  by  the  torch  of  heaven, 

And  all  her  love  she  centered  on  her  friend.  530 

One  night  Valerian  rambled  o'er  the  plains, 
And,  guided  by  the  pale  torch  of  the  moon, 
Thoughtful  indulged  the  golden  dreams  of  love : 


90 

Clear  was  the  sky,  no  night-cloud  crossed  the  stars, 

The  spicy  zephyr  poured  his  murmuring  song,  535 

And  on  the  rocks  the  heaving  billows  died. 

Enchanted  with  this  scene  of  night,  and  wrapt 

In  melancholy  guise,  he  rambled  on, 

And  bent  his  museful  steps  to  a  wild  hill, 

Whose  top  was  shaded  by  a  knot  of  trees,  540 

Whose  foot  was  bathed  by  a  romantic  stream, 

Which  poured  its  mellow  cadence  on  the  ear, 

And  in  the  tangled  thickets  lost  its  way. 

Before  he  reached  the  hill,  his  ear  was  struck 

By  the  sweet  clamours  of  Azora's  harp,  545 

And  by  this  ditty  warbled  to  the  winds : 

Clothe  me,  still  night,  within  thy  mantle  grey, 
Nor  mark  the  blush  that  crimsons  o'er  my  cheek, 

Bear  not  my  accents,  rustling  wind,  away, 
O  let  no  mortal  hear  me  while  I  speak.  550 


91 

To  thee,  soft  moonlight,  I  address  my  tale, 
Ye  stars  of  heaven,  to  you  I  lift  mine  eyes, 

With  tears  I  bathe  the  pinions  of  the  gale, 
And  load  these  shadows  with  my  heavy  sighs. 

Come,  harp,  thy  strings  of  harmony  awake,  555 

Come  lull  thy  mistress  with  one  soothing  strain, 

This  magic  sorrow  of  her  bosom  break, 
Loud  let  thy  transports  drown  the  voice  of  pain. 

Azora  loves  ;  her  bosom  feels  a  flame, 
A  passion  pure,  most  sacred,  and  most  true;  560 

Why  should  I  falsely  blush  to  tell  his  name  ? 
Brave  youth  of  Rome,  my  bosom  beats  for  you. 

Thy  lofty  soul,  thy  martial  form  of  grace, 
Thy  heart  all  noble,  free  from  treacherous  art, 

Thy  winning  manners,  and  thy  pensive  face,  565 

Have  won  Azora's  unassuming  heart. 


92 

O  had  I  still  this  heart  to  give  again, 
Brave  youth  of  Rome,  I'd  give  it  to  thee  still ; 

O  could  I  banish  from  this  heart  its  pain, 
Its  dissolution  would  oppose  my  will.  570 

But  low  and  humble  is  Azora's  lot ; 
Born  in  obscurity,  a  heathen  maid, 

My  days  have  flown  in  yonder  little  cot, 
My  rambling  foot  has  never  left  this  shade. 

But  thou,  dear  youth,  didst  come  to  cheer  this  clime,     575 
To  pour  instruction  on  this  darkened  mind, 

To  teach  this  soul  to  pass  the  bounds  of  time, 
To  soar  to  heaven,  and  leave  the  world  behind. 

O  were  I  mistress  of  the  proud  world's  throne, 
And  thou  a  suppliant  on  thy  bended  knee,  580 

Thee,  dear  Valerian,  would  I  love  alone, 
No  passion  would  I  cherish  but  for  thee. 


93 

Say  then,  brave  stranger,  can  thy  heart  receive 
A  heart  in  which  thy  virtues  ever  dwell  ? 

These  shades,  these  streamlets,  canst  thou  ever  leave,  585 
And  bid  Azora  and  her  cot  farewell  ? 

Oh,  if  thou  canst,  dear  wandering  youth,  adieu, 
I'll  write  thy  image  and  thy  memory  here, 

And  at  still  evening,  while  I  think  of  you, 
I'll  seek  thy  safety  with  a  prayerful  tear.  590 

Cease  now,  my  harp,  fall  silence  on  thy  strings, 
Dews  of  the  night,  descend  upon  my  breast, 

Breeze,  fan  my  loose  locks  with  thy  unfelt  wings, 
And  rock  me,  angels,  in  the  arms  of  rest. 

Azora  ceased  ;  and  on  the  passing  winds  595 

The  murmur  of  her  music  died  away. 
Wrapt  in  big  transports  stood  the  listening  youth  ; 

A  a 


94 

Dreams  from  Elysium  for  a  moment  bound 

In  fetters  magical  his  limbs  and  tongue : 

At  length  he  broke  his  joy's  enchanting  spell,  600 

And  with  a  voice  of  full  and  mellow  tones, 

Thus  answered  to  the  night  song  of  the  maid : 

Where  roves  my  sad  romantic  maid, 

Kind  shepherds  can  you  tell  ? 
Say,  have  you  seen  her  in  the  shade,  605 

The  hill,  or  tangled  dell  ? 
Tell  me,  sweet  stream,  that  babblest  by, 
Hast  thou  not  listened  to  her  sigh  ? 

Sad  echo,  from  thy  mossy  hall, 

Didst  thou  the  wanderer  see ;  610 

And  didst  thou  answer  to  her  call, 

And  did  she  speak  of  me  ? 
Soft  gales  of  evening,  bathed  in  dew, 
Oh !  have  you  seen  her  as  you  flew  ? 


95 

I  seek  her  over  hill  and  dale,  615 

O'er  stream,  through  whispering  grove  ; 

I  tell  her  name  to  every  gale, 
Breathed  from  the  heart  of  love  ; 

I  call — but  still  no  voice  replies  ; 

I  call — but  still  Azora  flies. 


The  robe  she  wears,  of  azure  hue, 

Floats  loosely  on  the  air ; 
Her  eyes  are  of  seraphic  blue, 

Pale  brown  her  waving  hair ; 

Her  steps  are  like  the  bounding  roe,  625 

Her  cheeks  the  rose,  her  forehead  snow. 


The  nightingale  would  cease  to  sing, 

To  listen  to  her  lay, 
And  zephyr  spread  his  silken  wing, 

To  bear  the  notes  away : 
Her  voice,  her  air,  her  face  impart 
A  mind,  a  genius,  and  a  heart. 


96 

Behold,  the  sun  withdraws  his  beam, 

And  darkness  shrouds  the  scene ; 
The  night-bird  pours  his  hollow  scream,  635 

The  night- wind  sweeps  the  green ; 
No  pipe  is  heard  on  mead  or  rock, 
The  shepherd  homeward  drives  his  flock : 

O  then  return,  my  peerless  fair, 

Restrain  thy  eager  flight;  640 

The  falling  dews  will  drench  thine  hair, 

Unwholesome  is  the  night. 
I'll  wind  each  thicket,  beat  each  shade, 
Till  I  have  found  thee,  wandering  maid. 

. 

Thus  sang  the  youth ;  and  lightly  o'er  the  stream,         645 
And  up  the  hill  with  bounding  step  he  flew, 
He  found  Azora  leaning  on  her  harp ; 
His  faithful  vows  he  proffered  at  her  feet, 
And  he  received  a  heart  already  his. 
Chaste  Dian  smiled  upon  their  virtuous  love,  650 


•  97 

. 

And  silvered  o'er  the  shadows  of  the  night. 

Valerian  led  her  to  her  father's  cot ;  • 

They  offered  up  their  mutual  vows  to  God ; 

The  happy  father  blessed  the  faithful  pair, 

And  Heaven's  rich  blessings  crowned  their  days  and  years. 

By  Oriander  and  the  nation  loved,  656 

Valerian  grew  in  influence  and  power ; 
The  truths  divine  he  taught  more  widely  spread, 
And  future  years,  he  hoped,  would  bless  the  hand 
Which,  in  the  land  of  darkness  and  of  death,  660 

Had  sown  the  seeds  of  everlasting  life. 
How  far  were  answered  these  auspicious  hopes, 
The  scenes  and  changes  which  by  years  were  brought 
On  those  fair  climes  which  own  the  eastern  sun ; 
The  deeds  of  war,  and  garments  rolled  in  blood,  665 

Conspiracy,  with  all  its  dark  designs, 
With  milder  scenes  of  love  and  quiet  life, 
If  Heaven  permit,  my  verse  may  yet  unfold. 

sb 


14  DAY  USE 

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LOAN  DEPT. 


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LD  21A-50m-8.'61 
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